Listen, Newbie, I don’t tell you I respect you a lot because, well, I don’t.

Angie. Put on your flats, we’re going for a walk.

Gosh, I’m sorry, nervous guy, but I just can’t do your work for you. But, what do you say you head on down to the library and look it up in the New England Journal of Who Gives a Rat’s Ass?

Careful, there, sweet-cheeks. I haven’t decided which way I’m going to take your temperature yet.

Listen up, there, Molly Menopause, I need you to quiet the hell down, you’re scaring everyone in the hospital. I mean, my God – they’re delivering a baby upstairs, and the poor kid’s using the umbilical cord to crawl the hell back in.

Bob Kelso is an awful, awful man.

I can’t stop thinking about putting up with you.

There, you win. You can ahead and do your victory dance or slaughter a goat or whatever it is you do when you’re happy.

Listen, girlfriend, I don’t wanna hear your misguided romantic notions. You see, for me, sex is a sport — like racquet-ball: You play hard for a half an hour, work up a sweat, and hope you don’t get hit in the eye.

Write this down, newbie: If you push around a stiff, nobody’ll ask you to do anything.