“What the fuck is all this bullshit now?”

Billy?

“Nah. Down here.”

Baby Justin?

“Is that my name?”

Yeah.

“Question.”

Shoot.

“Explain the concept of names.”

No.

“This my dad?”

Yes.

“He a cowboy?”

No. A drummer.

“Is that better?”

Less saddle rash.

“Okay. Speaking of which–”

…

“–I’m back.”

You poop?

“I did.”

Nice.

“I gotta be honest: I thoroughly enjoy pooping. Then the lady comes in and shines me up. It’s all very civilized.”

Well, don’t get used to it.

“Why not?”

You only get, like, two years of pants-pooping. After that, you’re on your own.

“That’s fucked up.”

I hear you.

“Another question.”

Go to it.

“There’s another guy. Not this guy, but also hairy. He keeps whacking on me with mallets.”

That’s your Uncle Mickey. Just go with it. Wait. Soft mallets?

“Yeah.”

Okay. Yeah, just go with it.

“Gotcha. Let you in on a secret?”

Sure.

“I’m about to puke all over this motherfucker.”

Try and hit his mustache.

“Will do.”