Listen, we don’t cotton to freaks round these parts, scram weirdo!

Oh yeah, I don’t polycotton to coping tropes, even my own. So why don’t you split?

Looks like I already did. You’re the sad figment of my twisted psyche’s tragic dividend. You’re the un-me. I’m the real me! You wanna be? Me?

Kiddo, I was the real me when you were still in my short pants.

Hate to break it to ya, but I wore them first. Me bequeathed thee, the psychopathological hand-you-downs.

So you’re the one who stained them?

Whoever found it, browned it.

You’d like me to be you, wouldn’t me? But it’s too late, you snoze, you lose.

You sleeped, you weeped.

You nappa, You get slappa!

You slumber, a cucumber.

You catch up on some Zed’s, you get out of my heads!

You slumber, ham- BURGER I DON’T WANNA TALK BOUT NOTHIN ELSE!