So here’s my beef with that woman: She’ll bitch and bitch about how I always fart loud, and she’ll get out of bed and slam the bathroom door shut on me when I’m havin a late night sit-down in there, like I left the damn door hangin’ open on purpose. I DID NOT LEAVE IT OPEN ON PURPOSE -- THE DOOR HANDLE IS ALL FOULED THE HELL UP AND SLAMMING THE THING AIN’T GONNA HELP ONE BIT.

What was I sayin? Okay: It’s piss and moan like somebody cares all day and night with that gal, and I just keep telling her maybe the gas would ease off a little if she stopped bringin home all that Taco Bell. She thinks those Mexican Pizzas are grand. I don’t know how she thinks a man can survive on shit in a bag, but I guess she’s putting me to the test. She keeps bringin home shit, I keep fartin, but the world keeps spinning round and round and never once does she wise up. Goes about her business, slams a few doors and in no time it’s back to Taco Bell, dumb as a pole. “Doo-dee doo-de doo, hello, I’m Grandma, dumb as a pole. Could I please have a sack of goddamn Mexican Pizzas?”

Simple truths just don’t soak in too good with her. I’m not sure what state we live in but there ought to be a law about things like this. What the hell are they doing up there in Warshington anyway? Lazy bastards.