Busy here - things all right - working my ass off trying to make enough money to send my kid to summer sleep away camp. I mean I GOT priorities and all. One of my classics, I think.
"What do you think of this couch?"
"Don't like it"
"How about these chairs?"
"Yeah, hate them."
"And this? How does this strike you?"
"You seriously like this piece of shit? It's hideous."
"I kind of like this couch - it seems comfy to read on."
"That couch is awful. Who would want a couch like that in their house?"
"Here, try this chair. I like this one."
"It's the SAME chair you hated five minutes ago, just in a different color."
"Listen. I am 36 years old. I deserve to have real furniture. I do not want leather couches. I am sit of living on futons, mother fucker. I am not afraid to cut you."
"Did you just say that when you divorce me I can choose my own furniture?
It is O-N mutha-fucka...."
All right, so this may have been slightly more dramatized than the real event....but it was how it went in my mind. I think Ikea should have a lawyer on the way out, so you can draw up the divorce papers. Big ups to the Playmobil Playahs