Foamy: Hey, stop working. I need you to take me to the food store. They're having a creamy cheesy special. Three-for-one sale. Not to be missed. Get your ass in gear and let's go.
Germaine: Can't. Too much to do. So much to write.
Foamy: Give me a break. Every minute of every day you're always writing some fucking bullshit down. I know you're creative with all your little stories and poetry and crap, but you need to stop.... And get me to the creamy cheesy sale.
Germaine: I can't stop. I am posessed by a deadly muse. It steals me of my sleep, robs me of my health, and turns every moment of life into a possibility for prose. It affects the mind, it guides your deeds, sacrifices friends, and burns away enemies. Every person encountered is looked upon as a plague of mediocrity and each face of beauty haunts your sleep until you die. Pain is the fuel that drives your art. Hatred is the spark that ignites the mind. You spend all your life working on a piece that will be miss understood by most and in the end, ultimately forgotten. And I do believe it will be the death of me.
Foamy: Take a break, asshole!
{Germaine experiences a heart attack and falls to the ground.}
Foamy: Fine, I'll call an ambulance. Hey, you think they can stop by the store before going to the hospital? Huh? Creamy cheesy!
