incorrectpurrfectapawcalypse

[incorrectpurrfectapawcalypse]

Olive: Wh-When we said you should be more friendly, this wasn't what we meant.

Patches, stirring tea: Oh, so now I'm TOO friendly? There's no pleasing you.

Bapawmet: Two sugars, please.

Patches: Coming right up.

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Olive: That's not very nice...

Patches: Eh, I'll be nice on a different day.

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Coco: Heh, yeah, two tickets to Surprise City, you and me, am I right?

Brownie: I get the window seat!

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Olive: Honestly, if someone tenderly cradled my face, I think I would black out.

Sparky: Are you okay?

Olive: No.

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Coco: You want to explain this text I got last night?

Brownie: Uh, yeah, sorry, that was autocorrect.

Coco: Autocorrect wrote "your so hot step on me"?

Brownie: Yeah, it's supposed to be "you're."

Coco:

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Brownie: I'm good... fam!

Olive: Hey, don't go shortening the word "family" by leaving out my three favorite letters: "I-L-Y!"

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Olive: Why are people so obsessed with top or bottom? I'd be happy just to have a bunk bed.

Brownie:

Brownie: I'm gonna tell them.

Sparky: Don't you dare.

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Patches: You're not going to believe what Olive did.

Sparky: What?

Patches: They looked after seven grapes for three days because they thought they were a bird's eggs.

Patches: You should've seen the look on their face when I ate a handful of them.

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Olive: Do care, did ask, plus I love you.

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Mittens: It is so sad that Steve Jobs died of ligma.

Patches: Who the hell is Steve Jobs?

Mittens, magically snapping his neck: Ligma balls.

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Patches, pouting: Stop taking away my toys.

Coco: Watching Olive die is NOT a toy!

Patches: Are you sure? It's quite fun.

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Patches: There’s nothing wrong with being a little delusional, a little evil, and having an overwhelming urge for power and revenge.

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Mittens: If you have any questions, just let me know.

Olive: Yeah, I have one question?

Mittens, leaving: Thanks for letting me know.

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Angel: Oh, hi. It's been a long time. How have you been?

Patches:

Angel: I've been really busy being dead. You know, after you murdered me.

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Mittens: Item: a laughable umbrella.

Mittens: Look at it. What does it think it's doing here? Lying there, broken, skeletal. There hasn't been rain in fifty years. The soil is cracked and parched. Any vegetation that claws its agonized way up out of it is maggot-white and dry as dust. The only moisture is from the wet rot of the junkpiles that stretch thirty feet above the ground in all directions, spilling out into the sandy, sloping basin that was once a seabed.

Mittens: Stupid umbrella. Does it think there is a monsoon coming? Does it even remember what a cloud of water vapor looks like? The clouds that pass now are oily and stink of sulfur, waiting for you to stop paying attention before they climb down your throat and settle in your lungs.

Mittens: Perhaps this idiot apparatus thinks it can protect from the relentless heat of the sun, but its fabric is torn and ruined, hanging from the snapped metal limbs, desperate for a breeze to stir it from its complete stillness.

Mittens: Take a moment to sneer at this corpse of an umbrella, and wish for a moment you had water enough within you to spit on it.

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Patches: Well, you know the old formula: comedy equals tragedy plus time.

Angel:

Patches: And you have been dead for a while. So I guess it's actually pretty funny when you do the math.

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Mittens: Who let you in here? This place is off-limits.

Patches: I disagree.