“My shoes are scuffed and dirty from dancing. The grave of my enemy is where I go to find my inner Astaire.”

“Laughter is the sound of the soul dancing. My soul probably looks like Fred Astaire.”

“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”

“There’s no room in my life for a woman. I mean I live in a closet, and I suppose I could squish my clothes over and she could squeeze in, but where is she supposed to put her clothes? And her shoes, what about her shoes?”

“Kindly remove your shoes from my bullshit.”

“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”

“Do you find it erotic how my pants bulge in the crotch, where I keep my coffee cup?”