The Less I Behave Like Whistler's Mother

Wracked With A Hangover I Do My Muttering Over A Black Velvet, A Union Of Champagne And Stout. Don't Be Swindled Into Believing There's Any Cure For A Hangover. I've Tried Them All: Iced Tomatoes, Hot Clam Juice, Brandy Peaches. Like The Common Cold It Defies Solution. Time Alone Can Stay It. The Hair Of The Dog? That Way Lies Folly. It's As Logical As Trying To Put Out A Fire With Applications Of Kerosene.

I'm Not At My Best When I Moralize Or Philosophize. Logic Is Elusive, Especially To One Who So Rarely Uses It.

The Less I Behave Like Whistler's Mother The Night Before, The More I Look Like Her The Morning After.

Going Down On A Woman Gives Me A Stiff Neck, Going Down On A Man Gives Me Lockjaw And Conventional Sex Gives Me Claustrophobia.

I Did What I Could To Inflate The Rumor I Was On My Way To Stardom. What I Was On My Way To, By Any Mathematical Standards Known To Man, Was Oblivion, By Way Of Obscurity.