Every once in a while my brother demonstrates an aptitude for drollery. It usually comes unexpectedly from left field.
"To me British music just sounds like a thousand variatons of 'Ring Around the Rosy."
On getting thrown out of a bar and going home with one shoe on:
"Well, it makes the sun shine a little brighter in the morning."
On me, drinking a colourful sake martini:
Bro: I ought to call you Don Cherry.
Bro: Because you're the only two people I know who don't look like a fag drinking that.
In a journal of our cross-country trip twelve years ago, written after I nearly killed us driving somewhere in Minnesota or f*cking Wisconsin:
"I saw the face of Satan today..."
On finances & 'significant others':
"...She said, 'Oh no. I have a hair appointment and don't have any money.' I felt my wallet tighten in my pocket."
After stripping the head of a Phillips head screw:
"Well, that one looks like Versace's asshole."
On the drive home after a lap dance at a Canadian strip bar:
Me: You mean to tell me I'm driving you home with a blown load in your pants?
Bro: What do you care? It's not like I'm asking you to do my laundry.
Keats's epitath reads that his name was 'writ in water'. My brother's will be written in piss and vinegar. I love my bro.