LUDIC LOG

"Are you home, you horrid bitch?"

"I'm in the kitchen, you miserable sack of shit."

"Are you making another of those inedible, defeated corpses you call 'dinner', darling?"

"It depends. Did you get a raise today, you sniveling, impotent toad? If so, yes, I'm making dinner. If not, I'm vomiting into a saucepan, and then I'm going to throw it at you. You can lick it up afterwards if you're still hungry."

"As it happens, dear, I did not get a raise today. I did have my annual review, but I think the boss could smell the rotten stench of despair and icy sweat that I pick up from you while I try unsuccessfully to sleep, so he sent me out with little more than his condolences that God cursed me to live with a subhuman viper like you."

"It's funny that you should use the word 'unsuccessfully'. Your own lack of success at finance, lovemaking, and behaving like a decent human being must have spilled over into your ability to get a good night's sleep. In fact, your failure is so vast that it's rubbed off onto me. I'm afraid that I can't even find the strength to puke you up a meal. I do apologize."

"Think nothing of it, darling. I'm sure we can order in from one of the three places left in the city who will deliver to us despite your constant inebriated shrieking and slatternly behavior."

"Say, speaking of being drunk and whorish, that was a good time at the Finleys' party this weekend, wasn't it, you detestable, needle-dicked slug?"

"It was a good time during the brief moments I was able to escape your smothering presence. Weeping alone in the bathroom with half a bottle of gin was probably the high point of the evening, and indeed of our marriage to date."

"Well, I certainly had fun. I always look forward to fellating your friend Roger, because it allows me to take my mind of you for a few blessed moments. In fact, the only time I think of you at all is when I spit his wasted semen onto the carpet and grind it beneath my heel."

"It's sweet of you to say that, darling. But one thing troubles me, you odious harpy."

"Is it that your complete failure as a man is so complete that you haven't even been able to kill yourself successfully?"

"No, my fetid venereal pustule."

"Is it that your breath stinks like a rest stop toilet?"

"No, my cretinous walking abortion."

"Is it that I told everyone you had murdered our baby rather than let it grow up into an adult that would realize what a lamentable shit it had for a father?"

"No, not at all, you volcanic eruption of every evil emotion of which a human being is capable. It's that...well...I'm not sure if you were listening during dinner, but Angela called us 'the most depressing couple in the world'."

"Pish and tosh. Your memory is as full of holes as your stinking, cowardly guts. What she said was that we were 'the worst couple in the world'."

"Still. You can't deny, any more than you can deny that the very existence of a life-hating crone like yourself is evidence that there is no God, that such a comment stings a bit."

"I can and do, oh excrescence I call a husband. For you see, I have to believe that they know couples worse than us. The Sillers, for example."

"But darling! The Sillers do not scratch absent-mindedly at their decaying, ever-aging flesh with their brittle, accusing fingers in a vain attempt to detract attention from their Satanic personality like you do."

"No indeed, my angel. Nor do they kick at the nearest dog, infant or cripple to sublimate the rage they are too weak and emasculated to focus on themselves, like you do. But they argue all the time."

"Er...as do we, greatest mistake of my empty existence."

"But when we do it, it's cute."