So, we've got a dead Italian Prime Minister in the living room, which-- –Sucks. I bet he knew how to make sauce. –...Which will be hard to explain, especially given the circumstances leading up to his death which were-- –Dildo-ey. –Unseemly. –Eh, potatoe, pa-dildo.
What?! –Oh, please. You're so hot for him I could re-heat this chili in your cooch. –Don't you have some humans to resource? –Actually, no. Most of my job's dealing with sexual harassment complaints against Mr. Archer. So... we gonna make some cooch chili or what?
What's their beef? –Oh, the same 'entitled' crap as always. 'I can't make ends meet. I'm on food stamps. My child died because I couldn't afford new bone marrow.' Just me, me, me, me, me! –Jesus, whose kid died? –Oh, who remembers? Check Pam's blog.
So don't speak to me. Ever. And while you're not ever speaking to me, jump up your own ass and die!
You want to see crazy?! –No! I've seen that movie and, spoiler alert, it ends with a closet full of 'my suit's on fire!' –I wish you'd been wearing one! –Who would want to wear an on-fire suit? –Cosplay enthusiasts! –What?