You got me all revved up last weekend thinking that you were going to be all hot to trot. Now you're just taking your sweet-ass time waltzing across Florida. Now you're sidestepping me for Orlando. And you're not even a hurricane. What gives? You make me wait this long, and for what? Some rain?
Fay. You disappoint me, Fay.
I put the trash outside last night, Fay, thinking that even if they cancel the collection trucks today, at least you'd blow everything all over the neighborhood and get rid of it for me. Now I can't even rely on that kind of amusement.
You got guys making up religious signs, Fay, like you're some sort of freaking metaphor.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Into each life a little rain. Whatever.
You're making me wait, Fay. I don't like to wait, Fay.
We had big plans, you and me. We were gonna do things. Go places. Have fun. Now I know how my father felt when he would start the car in the driveway to force my mother to finish her makeup and come out of the house so we could go to dinner.
I don't like sitting in the driveway, Fay.
You want to know how bad things are, Fay? You're a tick's ear hair away from being an Ernesto. That's right. I said it. Ernesto. He was gonna be something, Fay. He and I had plans. And what did he become? A rain event. You weren't even good enough to give a guy a bump on the noggin.
You know what you are, Fay? You're not an Ivan. You're not a Charley. You're not even a Jeanne. You're an Ernesto. And a poor copy of one at that. Butterflies fart harder than the wind you're producing.
You know what else you are? This, Fay:
You coulda been a Frances, Fay. You and me, we coulda relaunched the Vipir 9000 News Kite. We coulda had a ball. Coulda.
I hope you can live with yourself, what with all the pain and nerves you caused. I can barely look at you now.
I'll be in the car.