After a few months in my parents' basement, I took an apartment near the state university, where I discovered both crystal methamphetamine and conceptual art. Either one of these things are dangerous, but in combination they have the potential to destroy entire civilizations.

It's odd the things that people remember. Parents will arrange a birthday party, certain it will stick in your mind forever. You'll have a nice time, then two years later you'll be like, 'There was a pony there? Really? And a clown with one leg?'

I haven't got the slightest idea how to change people, but still I keep a long list of prospective candidates just in case I should ever figure it out.

My family isn't really all that different from anyone else's. Well, maybe they're a bit more entertaining.

I tend to show everything I do to my family, to check they won't be offended.

What other people call dark and despairing, I call funny.

I love things made out of animals. It's just so funny to think of someone saying, 'I need a letter opener. I guess I'll have to kill a deer.

The humor section is the last place an author wants to be. They put your stuff next to collections of Cathy cartoons.

When I look at a lot of older stuff that I've written, I think one sign of amateur humor writing is when you see people trying too hard.

I've been keeping a diary for thirty-three years and write in it every morning. Most of it's just whining, but every so often there'll be something I can use later: a joke, a description, a quote. It's an invaluable aid when it comes to winning arguments. 'That's not what you said on February 3,1996,' I'll say to someone.