“No, not again. You can’t keep doing this to me, Janice.”
“What do you MEAN, Ronald?”
“Oh, like you don’t know. Your artisanal jams are getting out of control. I still get cold sweats from seafood summer of 2004. Ring a bell?”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe it. You’re STILL hung up on that? That was a thoughtful homemade GIFT, asshole. To remember the best dinner of our lives that day at Marvin’s Beach Grill.”
“Okay bitchtits. First, you SAVED, I don’t know how secretly, the tails of all the honey garlic shrimp we ate at the restaurant. Then you put them IN YOUR POCKET, not even in a NAPKIN, and you know how I know that? Because the fucking gift you made had a gum wrapper and two of your scraggly ass hairs in it. [pause] And, for the record, Marvin’s isn’t even that great. I pissed next to a can-shaped guy in the bathroom emptying his shitpouch into the sink.
“Oh my god, in the sink?”
“Yes, Janice. It was fresh. Steaming, even. Actual gas poop breathing out of his real poop.”
“Ew. Whatever. So you’re telling me you’ve never appreciated my homemade jams, the raspberry, the lavender, *none*?
“Janice, sweetie, I’ve tried to hold this in for 20 years, but this is the last straw. No more. You can’t make an artisanal jam out of everything.”