Trillaphon: "Alright...who ordered the fucking special?!"
Hydrogen: That guy has a velcro bib that looks like a wifebeater, so he can tear it off repeatedly during fights without having to waste all his money on shirts.
Trillaphon: He's the Edison of our time. We're going to make a fortune when we launch ShirtBib.com.
Hydrogen: This place is like the shitty redneck dive bar from Roadhouse, except in this town the bouncers grab all the scum and throw them into the building.
Trillaphon: I wonder if he rips off that bib when he goes into Red Lobster so that he can put on the lobster bib instead, or if he puts the lobster one over it to keep from getting schmutz on it. Or maybe he just stands there flexing while the wait staff anoint his muscles in clarified butter and slide him back and forth between the kitchen and dining room like a greased up crabeater seal with bus trays all over his back.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
Something Awful reviews the absolute worst movies out there. We focus mostly on horror and science fiction, because all writers here on Something Awful are huge nerds.