The scene: 11:30 PM. A parched, fatigued, achy Psychotoddler stumbles through the back door, carrying two guitars, after a grueling 9 hour wedding gig. Finally making his way into the foyer, he drops the guitars, hangs up his jacket and makes his way into the kitchen.
PT: Ho man, that gig was BRUTAL!
Fudge (on the couch checking emails): Uh-oh. Er...hi Abba...is it shlepping time?
PT: No. No. No...more...shlepping... I'm leaving it all in the van. I have another gig Sunday and I'm not bringing all those speakers and poles and amps and stands in again. My back is KILLING me! (moves to kitchen)
Curly: Oh hey, Abba, how was your gig?
PT: Good, but I'm totally parched. There wasn't much water for the band and I was shvitzing like an old man in a sauna. I need a cold one. (opens fridge). What the--! NO COLD ONES?? Curly, go check the downstairs fridge.
Curly (returning): Sorry Abba, no cold ones downstairs. I see one in the pantry though.
PT: Is it cold?
Curly: No. It's in the pantry.
PT: Then it is scarcely an adequate replacement.
Curly: Lemme look in the fridge again. How about some steak sauce? It's cold.
PT: I don't think I should drink that. Grrrr....I guess I'll have to drink this warm Kiwi/Strawberry Snapple.
Curly: Um, that's Mom's. I don't think she wants you to drink that.
PT: She should have thought of that before she didn't put any cold ones in the refrigerator.
some time later
Curly: How was your Snapple?
PT: As it turns out, the ideal conditions for drinking Snapple include it being cold on its own. Watering it down with ice doesn't do the trick.
Curly: Better luck next time, Abba.