“Lighter? Check. Smokes? Check. Hair? Check.”
“You check your bloody hair? What, it’s gonna fucking leave?”
“Shut it, Mr. Adjusts Himself While He’s Standing And I’m Sitting. What, it’s gonna fucking leave?”
“It’s not the same thing!”
“It’s at EYE-LEVEL.”
“…only if you’re right down low, innit?”
“…”
“…what?”
“On a scale of one to ‘what pants?’, just how drunk are you, right now?”
“Hey, listen, I said I was sorry about the milk carton. The army men were there to serve as a warning.”
“We’re not even talking about that. It wasn’t milk; milk is a liquid.”
