Jesus, what kind of preacher are you?
The lousy kind.
No, I'm sorry, mate. I've seen the lousy kind. As long as you're not walking around with a little kiddie's arsehole around your finger like a bloody wedding ring, I'd say you were ahead of the game, then.
Drinkin' fightin', swearin'. I can't even afford to fix the damn air-conditionin'.
Sounds like the first verse of the worst country song ever written, man.
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