Grandpa Joe: Oh, good. I'm glad you're back.

Mrs. Bucket: Dad, what the hell? Why are you in a massive bed in the middle of the kitchen?

Grandpa Joe: It's where I'm gonna be for the next twenty years. And I'm bringing three friends. They should be here pretty soon.

Mrs. Bucket: What do you mean "three friends?"

Grandpa Joe: I mean there will be four of us - all over the age of 70 - who will just be in a bed in the middle of your kitchen for twenty years. None of us will die.

Mrs. Bucket: What are you talking about?

Grandpa Joe: It's gonna be great. I mean, none of us are even gonna walk to the outhouse. Bet that'll be fun. Cleaning my stool.

Mrs. Bucket: I don't understand!

Grandpa Joe: And get this - over the next twenty years, you're gonna get married, have a child, and your husband will die. Guess how many appearances I will make at any of those events? Do it. Go.

Mrs. Bucket: Um, I don't, um...

Grandpa Joe: Zero. The answer is zero. Know why? Because I'll be too busy eating the delicious oatmeal you'll have already made in advance for my friends and me.

Mrs. Bucket: Dad, you're scaring me!

Grandpa Joe: OH, and here's the kicker: the only reason I WILL get out of bed is when your son decides, inexplicably, to bring me on a once-in-a-lifetime tour around a chocolate factory. You know how you love chocolate so much?

Mrs. Bucket: Yeah?

Grandpa Joe: He's gonna totally ignore that and bring me with him, despite the fact that I've never so much as gone for a walk around town with the motherfucker. We will have no relationship other than him rubbing my feet when he gets home from school. You will have raised him, by yourself, for his entire life, and he won't even THINK about bringing you.

Mrs. Bucket: What the...

Grandpa Joe: At which point, I will get up and dance everywhere, totally ungrateful for the fact that you've cleaned all of our various bodily fluids by yourself for twenty straight years. I will dance and sing because of a fucking tour around a chocolate factory, and not because my daughter has singlehandedly kept me alive for twenty years. Again, neither of us will even acknowledge your existence at this particular moment in time.

(silence)

Grandpa Joe: SO, better get to work at your unforgiving job washing rich people's clothes with your bare hands. You're gonna need as much money as you can to nourish us for twenty years.

Mrs. Bucket: Dad, how do you know all of this?

Grandpa Joe: Don't worry about it. Just bring us back some fresh chicken when you're done with work. That would be great. And then wait six hours after that and come back to our bed, because there will probably be a mess at that point.

(She starts to leave, perplexed.)

Grandpa Joe: Have fun!