Sometimes I'll send a tweet, notice a typo in it, delete it, re-send it, notice a different typo, unplug computer, change my name and move.

I'll be tweeting telepathically today, so if you think of something funny, that's me.

Hamburger Helper is powerless if the hamburger doesn't WANT to be helped.

I use Google Earth to see which yards have milkshakes.

I'm convinced that our Twitter personas are closer to who we really are than the personalities we wear in public.

Before Twitter we used to call this "talking to yourself."

It's just a matter of time before they add the word "Syndrome" after my last name.

Yesterday my boss asked why I was tardy and I said, "I don't think you're supposed call people that any more."

Fast food places should have a third window, where you can trade in the wrong stuff they gave you at the second window.

I know we're not supposed to say this, but our second black president looks just like our first black president to me.

Just noticed my desk calendar ends on December 31. Here we go again.

Just imagine how good prescription cheese would be.

I'm forbidding the twelve people who regularly star my tweets to ever fly in an airplane together.

It's awkward when I have to pull someone aside and point out that my fly is open.

Just unfollowed a bunch of people funnier than me. Now my tweets seem, you know, funnier. Tomorrow I unfollow all the good-looking people.

My car's GPS has learned to say "Your other left."

In a perfect world, the phrase "axe body spray" would only be used to refer to blood splatter patterns.

Of all the martial arts, karaoke inflicts the most pain.

You know, if Twitter doesn't get picked up for another season, we're going to have a hell of a time wrapping up these story lines.

If I die in my sleep, my programmable coffee-maker is still going to make a full pot in the morning. Someone will appreciate that.