Bernie: “Lolly, why did you get out of the car? Where are you going?”

Lolly: “I’m fed up with it, Bernie. I can’t take it anymore.”

Bernie: “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just walk away. You don’t know what’s down that road.”

Lolly: “I know you’re not down there, and that’s good enough for me.”

Bernie: “But, Lolly, honey, was it something I said?”

Lolly: “It’s something you drove. I’m sick of that car. The wheels are higher than my head. And it’s something you wore, like that bearskin rug you’ve got on right now. Has it ever crossed your mind to wash the damn thing? It reeks! Birds fall out of the sky when you walk by. And it’s something you haven’t done, like figure out how to give me an orgasm!”

Bernie: “I sense that you’re a little upset.”

Lolly: “Oh, more than just a little, Bernie. It’s over, our relationship is over, the wedding is off, we will not be making little Bernies and Bernieces for your alcoholic mother to smother just like she did you. Get your vagina-clueless self back in your Overcompensation Car so you and your bear dress can drive to your mother’s and let her keep doing whatever she’s been doing wrong all these years. I never want to see you again.”

Bernie: “So, does this mean we’re going to be late for dinner? Should I call and have them push the reservations back a wee bit?”