No, not Halloween. I’m sick of Halloween, and October’s only half over. Let’s bust out the Christmas cheer. Maybe I’ll bust it out over your frickin’ head if you give me any trouble about it. Get in the Christmas spirit, or I’ll clock you one. Yeah, you, you spaz.
So this guy is looking at me in the drive through lane at Dunkin Disorderly. I mean, the guy’s looking at me. Right at me. So I look at this guy. And he’s looking at me. So I get out of the pickup, you know, to settle things. So I says, “What are you looking at, you two-toilet-Irish bozo?” So the guys says, I sh*t you not, he says, “I’m looking at you, looking at me, you frickin’ downcellar Eastie gump.” So I get the tire iron from behind the cab seat, and he gets a sawed-off baseball bat from his cah, and we settle it, right there, I tell you what.
I got my crullers, and he got to wait for the wreckah. Don’t mess with a guy in the Dunkin’ Disorderly drive-thru. It’s not a beverage. It’s a sacrament, you mutt. Probably a Jets fan.