“Tomaters? Who the motherfuck put tomaters on the motherfucking counter? How’s a Boogie supposed to stomp around on the counter and get into shit and knock shit over? I hets tomaters. Guess I’ll go hang out on the other side of the motherfucking sink.”
“TOMATERS HERE, TOO? What tomater-loving motherfucker keeps covering my counters with tomaters? Why, god? WHY?!”
Stop hating on the dehydrated bananas, motherfuckers. They’re fucking YUMMY. (They’re not dehydrated all the fucking way, but they won’t be around long enough for nastiness to grow on them because they’ll be IN MY BELLY.)
All the motherfucking tomatoes, ready to be canned. There’s another 40 or 50 sitting in paper bags in the dining room, waiting to be ripe before they get canned. They have green motherfucking shoulders (LOOK IT UP, GOOGLE IS YOUR FRIEND) and I cannot abide that shit.
Peeled tomatoes look like little brains. Brains. Motherfucking BRAAAAAAINS.
The fucking fuckers are pissed at me ’cause we’re keeping them inside for a couple of days. The great big motherfucking scabby thing on Sugarbutt’s neck was getting worse, so that tomato-loving motherfucker hypothesized that he was allergic to something outside and decreed we needed to keep them all inside for a few days to see what happens. So every time I step one fucking foot toward the laundry room, they start dancing around howling “Bitch! We want out!” and I have to say “Daddy hates you little bastards. You can’t go out. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
“Ah hets stayin’ inside. Motherfucker.”
Halfway there. Now if my second batch of tomatoes would fucking boil, I’d be a happy motherfucker.
Can you see the hate?