THE OLD MAN: Listen to me. All over the place. Jittery is what it is. I usually don’t smoke and don’t know why I asked you for a cigarette but I did and you gave me one and now look at me, I’m jittery. Jittery as a diddle doodle. Why did you give me that cigarette?
JENKINS: You asked me.
DICK: You shouldn’t have given it to me. I’m too old to smoke. You should have treated me like the wolfman locked in his room. NO MATTER WHAT I SAY, JENKINS, DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR. No matter what I say. I think you were mean spirited rather than you should have known better kind of thing. So that was your fault. I'm not responsible for smoking it once you gave it to me. I’m impotent and on top of that, feeling jittery. So what do you think happens next?
JENKINS DOESN’T RESPOND
BARTENDER: What, Dick? I’m interested in what happens next.
DICK: I'm glad someone is. I'll tell you what happens next. Diarrhea. No first drafts of Pulitzer Prize winning novels, just loose stool. And I'll have to sit on the toilet until it all comes out then spend an hour wiping. Looking, wiping, looking, wiping. THAT’S what happens. But you don’t know that’s what happens. None of you do. You all don't have one foot in the grave yet. It’s all swaying buttercups, green pastures as far as the eye can see with big bowls of peach ice cream that you're eating with big wooden spoons. That vision narrows rather quickly, to a toilet stall with graffiti written in black felt tip marker next to an empty cardboard roll. Kilroy was here, someone had written and instead of a nose they've drawn a penis. And you're looking at that while you're having diarrhea realizing you have nothing to wipe with.
BARTENDER: I’ll bear that in mind.