Excuse me?

Rockets party orgies with buttered up fatties.

Rubenesque, please.

And, uh, no, nothing like that.

I don't think you're doing your daddy or Jack Foley or certainly yourself any favors.

I hold him back.

I'm not.

You're still trying to control this.

You can't micromanage a campaign once it gets started.

It's shooting class five rapids.

You need a god damn life jacket.

No matter how fast you paddle.

I know.

Then let's try a trust fall.

Seriously, I don't care how you feel about this, but unless you want to end up the subject of a cautionary documentary, better start telling me the things that you're afraid to whisper that you've been keeping inside.