I'm angry. I'm very angry, Ralph. You know, you can ball my wife if she wants you to. You can lounge around here on her sofa, in her ex-husband's dead-tech, post-modernistic bullshit house if you want to. But you do not get to watch my fucking television set!



All right, so what I should do is, uhm, come home and say "Hi Honey, guess what? I walked into this house today where this junkie asshole just fried his baby in a microwave because it was crying too loud, so let me share that with you."


You see me doin' thrill-seeker liquor store holdups with a "Born to Lose" tattoo on my chest?