“There are whiskers in my soup, and my spoon smells like my cat’s ass.”

“I can smell a trap. It smells like my ass.”

“Today I ate my manuscript with the very spoon I used to write it with. My book was called “Chicken Noodle Soup for the Stomach.”
I wrote it with alphabet soup, and then edited it with a can of chicken noodle soup.”

“Everything I learned in school, mixed together with water and chicken broth, isn’t worth the soup served at a soup kitchen. I was a bring-my-own-spoon kind of student.”

“My favorite smells are freshly baked bread, the pages of an old book, and they way my boss’ ass smells when he’s shouting at me.”

“Though my skull is the size of a soup bowl, everything in the universe—and more—can fit inside my imagination. And guess what? My imagination tastes like chicken noodle soup.”

“Not only will my kids be out to replace me, but so will all my clones. Makes me feel so disposable, like a plastic spoon.”