Come on, I’ve ruined date night because when we go to a restaurant the only thing I can eat is the chef.

You see? I’ve known you, what, five minutes and already I’d rather have you kill me.

So there’s not a cure, and the partial cure might not even work because we’re too late, and Sheila’s not a rat. But the good news is I get to make an elderly woman throw up in a bucket, which might be a turn-on for some people, but it’s not my thing. Yet! Who knows? The night is young!

New lesson: if at first you don’t succeed, then blast his ass with tear gas.

I am not a murderer. Okay, technically I am. Not even technically. Literally. But I refuse to be defined by the one time I murdered somebody.