stop singing.  now!
stop the friggin' car now!
do you realize the sheer, goddamn, unadulterated, undiluted, no holds barred, one hundred percent pure as ivory snow, absolutely friggin' stupidity of what you just did?
do you?!
lemme paint you a friggin' picture ahright? imagine if you will a 1978 pontiac trans american in pristine condition. an appealing portrait, nesspah?
but wait! what's that spec on the windshield? could it be a wad of melted mozzarella, tangy tomato sauce, and various friggin' meat products?
and if it ain't cleaned off?
answer me, hippie girl. and if the mess ain't cleaned off my car?
you're a smart little homo, aren't you, hippie girl? but, while astounded at your nimble, friggin' insight, i still detect an issue hanging fire, namely: where does a sharp-witted faggot like yourself get off doing such a dopey thing like that there?
no really, i'm perplexed. i mean, could you have done stupider if you were born without a fuckin' head?!
shut-up, christine!
are you gettin' wise with me?
oh, you're dumb all right, you hairy ass punk. but please, allow me to clean the friggin' windshield. i insist.
there. nice and clean.
oh, no, no, no! it's the fag band!
a bunch of guys who make bad music, dress like freaks, and wear more make-up than all my sisters combined? these assholes must be stopped!
kool and the gang, now there's real music.
but this.  is crap!
so. all that having been said and done, i believe we are ready for the final topic of discussion. namely: have you learned your lesson yet, puke?
excuse me, i'm a little deef-a- hearin'. can you repeat yourself?
oh, yeah?
that's not what your mother said last night.
okay, fagmo.  i'll tell you what your mother said last night. she said that i was the fuck of her life.
sure.