If you have the woman you love, what more do you need? Well, besides an alibi for the time of her husband’s murder.

To find out if she really loved me, I hooked her up to a lie detector. And just as I suspected, my machine was broken.

Making love to me is amazing. Wait, I meant: making love, to me, is amazing. The absence of two little commas nearly transformed me into a sex god.

I make love with a focus and intensity that most people reserve for sleep.

I love being in love, but I also love other things, like not being jealous, overly sensitive, or needy.

Our love was a two-person game. At least until one of us died, and the other became a murderer.

She asked if I loved another woman, so I answered honestly and said, “Dinner was great, but I could go for dessert.

If I could bronze my love, it’d be worthy of a silver medal.

I had a dream about you. We installed Dr. Robert Jarvik’s artificial heart in a mannequin and brought it to life, only to later kill it because a creature that’s all fake heart and no brain is what’s commonly called a “politician,” and must be destroyed.

I had a dream about you. In my dream I stole all your money, kidnapped your parents, and mailed you mannequin parts spray-painted red in a series of packages that also included ransom notes. Then, towards the end of the dream, the cops surrounded my cave and swarmed in to arrest me. Sweating, my eyes shot open, and I realized it was a dream. “Of course it’s a dream,” I thought. “The cops have no idea where my cave is, and your first package has yet to be delivered.”

I had a dream about you. You looked like you, but you also looked like a mannequin. And I looked like me, but I also looked like a mannequin. Between the two of us, we were too fake even for Hollywood. And as such, we were forced to reside in Washington DC.

I had a dream about you. At first you were a mannequin, and I was a fashion designer. Then, inexplicably, we switched roles and I became the mannequin. But instead of putting clothes on me, you laughed at my nakedness, and you sold me to the owner of a sex shop.

She gave me money to buy condoms, and instead I bought a book of baby names. That’s life. That’s love. That’s fiscally irresponsible.

Love is inaudible—until you hear it. And once you do, you’ll never forget the sound of her voice.

I love like I’m thirsty. Can I offer you a tall glass of Sahara sand?

I unwrapped my love for her like one might unwrap leftovers. Gotta eat up the old stuff first, as a cannibal might say in a retirement home.

Love is a banana. First you peel it, and then you roll on the condom.

She told me she loved me. She told me a lot of things. Some of those things were true, and some of those may or may not have been true. It’s kind of hard to tell, because to be honest, I wasn’t listening.

We had an unspoken love for one another. Probably because she’d never talk to me or return my phone calls or texts.

In bed, I can go for hours. Oh yes, I love naps.

I'm a dog lover and sex addict. Those two things are unrelated.

I am in love, and the river is beginning to ice over. I’d better go drown myself before I freeze to death.

I am the Trolley of Love. Free rides before noon and after 11:58 am!

I make love like a snake disguised as an elephant and a donkey. But I mustn’t talk about sexual congress and Congress simultaneously.

I love that she loves me a 10, on a 5-point scale. Well, I know it’s a 5-point scale, though I asked her on a 1-100 scale.

Love is like encountering a forest and having to chop down every tree but one. Oh, and you have to chop down each tree by hugging it until it falls.