I think we got our coffee mugs mixed up, this one is just coffee. Oh for Christ’s sake don’t even start with me at 8 in the morning. I saw that.
THIS IS MY KITCHEN, MINE… if you come in here again with your petty needs I might stop throwing curses and start throwing knives.
This turkey cost how much? Oh, it’s heirloom, free range, organic, and graduated summa cum laude? From where, Trump University?
What do you mean, how do you do it? It’s a whisk, not a frigging slide rule.
Why oh why are you so incompetent? Never mind, I’ll do it, just get me a bourbon…keep pouring, this isn’t breakfast you know.
Oh no please, I would love to host all the couch surfing Euro-Trash you and your “band” can bring over. Stuffing magically falls out of my ass, it turns out. And by all means, try to buy my love with an $8.99 bottle of chardonnay…for the six of you. Seems like a fair trade.
I said to whip the cream, not torture it until it screamed and died. Congratulations, you’ve made butter. You could at least clarify it instead of just standing there holding that whisk like a sociopath.
If you ever want to stop sitting at the kid’s card table start peeling…faster. And stop crying, that’s why the band-aids are there.
My sister’s coming. Someone open the can of “cranberry jelly” and put it where I won’t have to look at it.