Early Drafts of Famous Clichés Now Discovered in a Cache Near the Dead Sea!

These early drafts of famous clichés were recently unearthed in a cache near the Dead Sea, proving once and for all that all writers—even those of famous clichés—must undergo an arduous revision process. The notes contained many crossings-out and occasional curse words in the margins, and I have attempted to replicate them here as accurately as possible.
Those who live in a house of meat must not throw forks.
Those who live inside an egg should not peck with their sharp beaks at others who live outside the egg, for they will surely crack their own egg in the process, and be sad, and will be born before their time as chickens.
Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones.
[Writer's margin notes: I am going to get representation for sure with this beauty. Agents, take note!]

Depressed losers generally like to hang out with other depressed, pathetic losers.
That miserable shithead John is dating that wretch Sally. They are frigging perfect together! I sort of hate them both, and their long mournful faces.
Misery loves company.
[Writer's margin notes: I am feeling kinda low myself. Hey, maybe I will seek out the company of other writers! But writers are weird. Sometimes they gaze out the window and spill soup down their shirtfronts while they obsess about this character or that. I hate writers. But I am a writer. Damn it, this cliché is so good I cannot stand it. I need a martini.]

My white friend Bill called my other white friend Jim "white." It seemed kinda dumb.
That's like the squirrel calling the ferret a rodent!
That's like the pot calling the kettle black.

[Writer's margin notes: My kettle is stainless steel. This doesn't really work. I'll fix it in the next draft.]

Caught between my winkie and my anal aperture.
Caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Shit, that's been used. Why can I not be ORIGINAL?
Caught by my wife in bed with another woman, and unable to attend to the dinner that is currently burning on the stove and setting off all the smoke alarms.
Caught between a rock and a hard place.[Writer's margin notes: No one will buy this. My writing sux. "Rock." "Hard Place." How much more boring can I be?]

Worth one's weight in pork products and fatty sausages.
Worth one's weight in doubloons, unless one is really skinny or even anorexic.
Worth one's weight in gold.
[Writer's margin notes: My professor will like this allusion. I will get an A. Not that HE ever wrote anything so spot on. Are clichés like this selling these days? Who can predict the whims of the market. I have to have faith.]

A crazed toddler in a store filled with expensive breakables.
An angry marmot inside the pants of someone with a weenie made of porcelain.
A big machine running roughshod over a person who has porcelain arms and legs! And also a porcelain head!
A bull in a china shop.
[Writer's margin notes: Nailed it. But, will editors be familiar with bulls? Perhaps I should use "rampaging pony" or maybe "stompling lion." Too wordy. I am riddled with doubt, as always.]

Laughter makes me piddle my pants and forget about my sorrows and failings, so busy am I changing my pants and doing laundry, endless laundry, as well as changing my underwear. Could I be incontinent? Damn it! I should not have had all those children, for they damaged my undercarriage.
Laughter is the best medicine.