I know what you’re doing.
You’re pulling the Thornton Mellon routine. Trying to make yourself look handsomer by hanging out with uggos.
“Please don’t call my friends ‘uggos.'”
Tell your friends to stop being ugly.
“This man happens to be a celebrity chef.”
Great. Tell him to make me a grilled cheese.
“He doesn’t do that.”
He’s too good to grill me up a cheese? Fuck him and his Gilligan hat, then. I bet he’d grill Garcia up a cheese.
I hate all your friends except Bob Saget.
“Saget fucks. I bet he’s fucking right now. Or he’s showering, or going to the ATM, both of which activities are related to his fucking.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Is this Nixon?”
No. You would literally never guess who this is.
“Now my interest is piqued.”
“You’re on with John.”
“Johnny, it’s Young Frank Langella.”
“Wow. He was right. Totally would not have guessed.”
“I see you’re admiring my potato salad.”
“Not ‘admiring.’ Just looking.”
“Look deeply. Denim is the most masculine of fabrics, is it not?”
“I’m getting a creepy vibe from you.”
“Well spotted. I’m in 1977, and I’m allowed to do the creepiest stuff imaginable to people. Including you.”
“I’m hanging up the phone.”
“Fine. Send the uggo to my dressing room.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
“That was weird and unpleasant even by your standards.”
I didn’t enjoy it, either.