I once arranged a Hendrix song for a klezmer band,  and called it: The Wind Cries Murray.

I have an extra organ. It allows me to stand unaided.

A circus once ran away to join me.

It is illegal to sell olive oil marked “extra virgin.” Sorry.

I declined the premiership of Costaguana. I wasn’t going for any of that shite.

When I was born, my dad gave Bill Clinton a cigar. You know the rest.

One of my harsh looks once left a DNA sample on a passing motorist.

I joined the London Philharmonic because it needed more cowbell.

The three fastest-growing lost tribes worship me as the god of infertility.

I’m five-foot-fourteen.

I was banned from America’s Cup yacht racing for playing defense.

I’ve shot four holes in one. Guy.

I once sold an encyclopedia salesman a vacuum cleaner.

Growing up, I was acknowledged as the toughest kid in my neighborhood until those boys moved in.

I invented the spork. I don’t get any royalties because I insisted on calling it the foon.

I had a full-sized tattoo of myself applied.

I killed the deputy.

I’m so handsome I was sued for alienation of affection by a narcissist.

I hold the patent for Wite-Out for websites.

All told, six women have committed suicide over me, so I now carry a really strong umbrella.