Rizzo has been suffering for ten long years from working with his colleague who has the worst breath you could possibly imagine. Literally.
Rizzo: Woah. Did you just throw that? I just caught it, loud and clear. I mean, direct hit, brah. That’s pure Grade A gut rot. You have fart breath, brah. I mean, come on man. Been working with you for ten years and not one morning have I ever, EVER not smelled that grimy, hot—it’s like lava melting my face and in this heat wave, let me tell ya, you’re liable for killing somebody.
I’m gonna pin you down and squeeze an entire tube of toothpaste down your throat. I’m getting visions. Don’t they have pills for that sort of thing man? Really. What is it with you? It’s abuse! Breath! Everyday, all day…like a heaving—it’s like a rein of terror firing down on me. Like cheese wrapped over a dirty diaper and baked in a microwave. Alright?
I’m gonna knock you out, bro. No, no, listen…if your stinky ass breath enters my space just one more time, I’m gonna knock you out cold. I am not gonna deal with it anymore. For years, I’ve been shoving mints down your throat, every type of gum brand I could find, nothing kills it. You think it’s cause I’m nice? I just wanna breathe fresh air. I’m losing precious years of my life breathing in your toxic waste. I can’t. I can’t do it anymore.
Brush your teeth, do the tongue, the cheeks, the roof, get that fungal bacteria you have jumping off in your gut region, cause I’ve had it. Go see a specialist and get a renovation.
That’s it now. Don’t even breathe near me. Not even through your nostrils.
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