EARL
                         You're absolutely right.  I don't
                         know you.  Really, I don't. I don't
                         know why you festoon yourself in a
                         feather boa and sing off-key at a
                         roomful of people who, in fact,
                         don't know you either.  I don't
                         know why your boyfriend took the
                         keys and drove away from the bar
                         and left you, shivering in a T
                         shirt and hot pants, stranded two
                         hundred miles from home.  Well, I
                         do have an inkling about why he did
                         that.  But I don't know why you
                         blithely continue to fuck him
                         today, as though it never happened. 
                         And when he's not fucking you, I
                         don't know why you masturbate to
                         the eyes of a movie star that you
                         will never meet.  I don't know why
                         you're so saccharine and so
                         dessicated and so desperately,
                         desperately lonely.  But frankly,
                         you simpering, assuming,
                         carcinogenic breast-implanted B
                         movie butterfly bitch... starting
                         right now, I don't give a fuck.