And while you're at it, stop slipping the hallucinogens into Marm's food. Or are those ghosts? I have no fucking clue.
And that's not a waffle, it's an ice tray. That round thing? It's not a bucket, it's an upside-down fez with a chin strap. And Dottie has already assumed the morning anal-penetration pose. In other words, it's another happy fucking Monday in Bizarro World.
Alas, Phil has been pwned (yes, I said that) by Marm, who as we all know has nothing but pure love and a few ... special feelings ... for Dottie.
Feel the warmth, Phil. The warmth from Marm's ass, I mean.
'Ol Marm's smarter than you give him credit for, Dot. He learned "Stop, Drop and Roll" from the kids' after-school specials, and when Phil decided to play "a game" with Marm, the poor guy had no choice. The game, you see, was called "Camp Buchenwald" and Marm was tasked with playing "der Juden".
God damn, Phil's a fucking racist asshole. Oh, and be sure to pick up more lighter fluid next time you go to the store. Seems you're all out.
Not only is Marm stealing food from the 23%  of homeless people who have suffered greatly under the current economic crisis, he's bringing this shit back to Dottie and her paperwasp neighbor.
I'm still not sure if Marm is truly a Republican, but this act lends credence to the hypothesis.
Phil may not be the asshole after all ...
Somebody please call the SPCA. Or a veteranarian. Either Phil is still not feeding the pooch, or poor Marm has a tapeworm the length of Keith Richards' medical chart. Either way, you're abusing a dog and enabling your daughter to cheat her way through life. Solid family values.
Nice going, Phil. See you in Vegas with your kids' money!
Because, you know kids eat a lot of peanut butter. A really lot. Like a Costco Lot.
For God's sake, Phil, be Indiana Jones just once and make her tunnel an adventure. Look at the sad bitch. Relive the glory of Gondor, you lanky porn-stached murderous bastard.
Look kid, either you truly are Phil's progeny and as such have scarely two neurons to rub together, or you just have an amazing lack of talent when it comes to puns. Trust my knowledge on this, you little Fred Durst wannabe.
Seriously, Dottie, if you want to get that cheap-ass murderous husband of yours to buy you new shoes, you should probably have given Marm a pair of your old ones.
What? Those ARE your old ones? Jesus fawking Christ, woman! It's no wonder Phil won't do to you what Marm does. For a second there you even looked hot.
Then came those shoes.
And for God's sake, relax your kegels.