He

He's a nice guy but he played too much football with his helmet off.

He's the type of man who will end up dying in his own arms.

He has the voice modulation of a railway station announcer, the expressive power of a fence post and the charisma of a week old head of lettuce.

He looks like a condom full of walnuts.

What other problems do you have besides of being unemployed, a moron, and a dork?

If I were married to you - I'd put poison in your coffee. If you were my wife, I'd drink it.

He's done everybody's act. He's like a parrot with skin on.

His imagination resembles the wings of an ostrich.

Who picks your clothes? Stevie Wonder?

His pictures seem to resemble not pictures but a sample book of patterns of linoleum.

He doesn't bleach his hair, he's just prematurely orange.

He doesn't die his hair, he bleaches his face.

His ears made him look like a taxicab with both doors open.

He has turned almost alarmingly blonde - he's gone platinum, he must be plutonium, his hair is coordinating with his teeth.

He looked like a half melted rubber bulldog.

Well, at least he has finally found his true love...it's a pity that he can't marry himself.

A pig, an ass, a dunghill, the spawn of an adder, a basilisk, a lying buffon, a mad fool with a frothy mouth.

The youthful sparkle in his eyes is caused by his contact lenses, which he keeps highly polished.

You look into his eyes and you know someone else is driving.

He has no more backbone than a chocolate eclair.

Do you mind if I smoke? - I don't care if you burn.

My dear, you leave your pictures in such a sketchy state. Why don't you ever finish them?

My dear, why do you ever begin yours?

I'll never forget a face, but in your case I make an exception.