Hey, Garcia. What’s in–
“Drugs; you know what’s in the briefcase. Quit fucking around and get your shit together.”
“You’re not. You just want to have your shit together. You have done nothing to get your shit together.”
I’ve been successfully lying to my friends and family about having quit smoking.
“Yeah, man – are you trying to claim a successful lie as ‘a success?’ Even you should realize how sad that is.”
I do. Now.
“You need some sort of plan. Even a bad one, man. Just a plan and stick to it.”
Well, you know: not to be rude, but look who’s giving me advice.
“And look where it got me, jagoff. You know your only modes of relating with humanity is avoiding it or fighting it?”
“For a wolverine, yeah. If you were a legendarily ferocious Canadian giant death weasel, then your behavior would be right down the middle of the plate. For a human, though: outlier.”
“Yeah. You’re running out of last chances.”
I thought those were infinite.
“That could be part of the problem right there.”
Can we get back to foolish banter and witty, light-hearted skits?
“Oh, sure. Let’s talk about what’s in my briefcase.”
“Just, you know: stop being such a goddamn asshole. And if you can’t, point it at yourself. Cut the shit, Ricky. No one’s laughing.”
“Let’s do some silly stuff.”
I feel like you crossed some sort of line there.
“I know, right? It’s exciting. I have a boner.”
No, wait: I am seriously starting to regret writing any of you with free will. You’re fictional.
“First of all, everyone in here is semi-fictional. Second of all, there is no thing as ‘in here.’ Third of all, there is no such thing as a free will.”
I think that sounds deeper than it is.
“Well, there’s a fuck-ton of drugs in the briefcase, remember.”