John: “Yo! Pickle Lady, whatsh happenin’?”

Teresa: “What the hell did you just say?”

John: “Lighten up, Sweetcheeks. — hiccup — Come over her and whip some of that fine leg on your war hero.”

Teresa: “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch. You’re friggin’ drunk!”

John: “No, I’m not.”

Teresa: “Don’t try to bullshit me. You’re shitfaced.”

John: “OK, well maybe jusht a li’l bit.”

Teresa: “And just who the hell gave you permission to enter my liquor cabinet?”

John: “Aw, come on, Muffin. Gimme a break. I was just shelebrating kickin’ that cowboy’s ass in the debate.”

Teresa: “Kickin’ his ass you say? From what I read, all it means is that you could get your sorry ass elected as president of the goddamned debating club, and that’s it, you dumbshit.”

John: “You know what? — hiccup – Jamesh Carville ish right. You don’t know shit.”

Teresa: “You had better hope you didn’t say what I think I just heard, Sonny Boy.”

John: “What? You didn’t hear me? S’matter? You got shit in your ears? Hahahahahaha. Carville says he’s gonna keep you and your big mouth locked away for the resht of the friggin’ campaign. Hahahhahahaha.”

Teresa: “You listen to me, you feckless shitsack. You open your goddamned mouth once more and the undertaker will be pulling that bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII out of your dead ass. And, you can tell that lizard-looking waste of space, Carville, that I will nail his nuts to my mantelpiece, if he ever tries to muzzle me. Now, go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

John: