I dont have a porsche. (Best told by whispering in someones ear.)
There's none, both live for the hits.
One you're running on fumes, the other you're fuming with the runs.
You take the letter "S" out of "sub", and the letter "F" out of "way".
None of them make the sandwiches.
It's just too hard.
An erection can make it past the semis, and still stand up if you sing for it.
He's running down the street with the bike under his arm.
Silly dad, the internet told me all you have to do is be a Christian.
I don't have a Porsche in my garage.
The pricks are on the outside of a porcupine.
So where are you from?" "I'm a Liberian" "Oh sorry" *whispers*