You’re a freak. A freakish giant freak. You frighten children. Dogs avoid you.
How tall are you, Stevie?
I know this one, I’ve heard it, and I hate being called…
Try, just once, responding to a query with a straight answer. Just to see how it feels.
Okay, I’ll bite. I’m five feet, three inches…
I didn’t know that stacked shit that…
A family of Irish could live inside your giant, freakish skull. You know that, right?
Okay, side-bet. If I win, you have to follow me around and hold my beverages on top of your head. Like a mobile drink coaster. Except one with halitosis and no fashion sense to speak of.
I’ll see you in hell, Lincoln.
I mean, I’ve got to get my duds custom made. What’s your excuse? You could shop in the young squires section of the haberdashery.
See. You. In. Hell.
We’ll all be there Stevie, sooner or later. Wait and see.
