I'm telling you this for your own good, that's the worst fuckin' sweater I've ever seen.
Two days like car wrecks. It's a wonder anyone has the balls to sell me insurance.
Just put it on plastic and forget your debts; forget them all to heck.
Only fries and fingers go in the fryer. Remember that for your pension.
I fear if I was to post a classified ad ("In search of a little passion.") all the replicants would probably already have the wrong idea.
Lick reverse and apply metaphor here.
I don't think enthusiasm reads the newspaper.
Is this the part where I cut my hair and move out west?
I'm happy with the way this one turned out.