“While I appear to be happy and giggling, rest assured that inside I am sad. And angry. Like that one time—Feb 14, 1997, at 1:47 pm to be exact—when John Beaverthief stole my girlfriend. He snatched her from the shelf of my life like she was a trophy wife. But she was no trophy; she was more of a maquette.”

“I want a trophy wife. I’ll keep her on the shelf next to my future Nobel peace prize. (I plan on inventing a gun that shoots love, not bullets.)
”

“I want a trophy that has atrophy—where the maquette on top isn’t sculpted metal, but rather a flaccid sack of jelly that sags and droops.”

“I want a trophy wife, because the only thing I’ve ever won is a fourth-place ribbon in the fourth grade. I’d treat her well, and I wouldn’t let her get too dusty on the shelf.”

“I just broke up with my girlfriend. My wife will be pleased. But first she’ll be displeased, because she didn’t know I had a girlfriend.”

“My ex girlfriend, she gave great log cabin. But she couldn’t write a speech like Lincoln. So I grew a beard and broke up with her.”

“My eyes change color depending on my mood and what I’m wearing. If I’m wearing an acorn brown shirt, my eyes look like squirrel fur. And if I’m wearing no shirt at all, my eyes look more nude and flesh-colored. I guess my ex girlfriend, Zelda, said it best when her friend asked her what I look like and she said: “He looks like you’d imagine him to look like, if you had no imagination.”