
“You've got something on your shirt.” His roommate said. “Right there. Your shoulder. It's a chip. On your shoulder. My god, how perfect! Oh, dude. Did you just eat that? Who knows where that shoulder's been — I mean apart from holding the refrigerator door open so you can get more shit to jam into your pie-hole ... Look at the size of you. Good god, man. You’re a disgrace.”
“I love you too.” Simpson said, never taking his eyes off the television.