You'd think there would be some fucking thing...

Man, I'm sorry, I just got nothing to offer, really.
I mean, if I can't keep my fuckin self interested for more than two sentences, what are the odds that I'll be able to scintillate the lot of you?

Yeah, sorry, Taff nailed it, them vanilla Oreos were pretty much crap.
I was kind of hoping they'd be like Canookistanian Girl Guide (yeah, we call them that, not that Girl Scout horseshit) cookies.

The vanilla ones. Like everything else that comes from adults when you're a kid, there was a bigassed compromise (and you all remember what Larry David defines one of those as). EVERY box was, naturally, HALF chocolate and HALF  fuckin vanilla.
My big sister was a Guide, so we always had some around, but, of course, you had  to eat the fuckin chocolate ones.

And no, I didn't grow up in one of those houses where you could just snipe the vanilla half and leave the fuckin chocolate, where's the lesson in that???

I got a constant battle trying to instill this ethic in the Ranette, you know?
Like why it ain't OK to skiff the fuckin topping off a piece of pizza and leave the fuckin crust.

Or why when you want another serving of the fucking mosta...

You can't just scarf off the fucking Top Cheese.
You know, it's like taking only the drummies out of the order of wings and leaving all the flats and tips.

Like, you know, an American.

Anyways, the Cream Fucking Soda was fuckin transcendental, as always.

Oh yeah, I owe yiz for last Friday, don't I?
Beat this, I dare you.

Raj