If you don’t look like fuckin’ roadkill then I don’t know what does. Welcome to Boston. Wanna beer?
Got me a fuckin’ Kraft Dinner feast goin’ on. This is what they serve in heaven, I think. Kraft Dinner ‘n hot dogs. And beer.
Smecker not treatin’ ye? -grins-
Smecker’s got me sleepin’ on his damn pokey-ass couch ‘til I get my shit squared around. Man’s got a goddamned spare room and he makes me sleep on the couch.
-whistles- Someone’s in the dog house.
You shut your Irish face, I ain’t nobody’s fuckin’ dog! *scowls*
-grins- Maybe yer not his dog… but ‘t certainly seems like yer his bitch!
*makes a rather weak attempt to whack at him* Jesus fuckin’-a christ! The fuck is wrong with you? Can’t leave well enough alone?
-ducks out of the way- Nope!
I’ll have you know I ain’t anyone’s fuckin’ bitch, or their dog, or any other goddamn animal-related term your stunted brain thinks up. Alright? Alright. Jesus, I was gonna offer you supper, too.