We have been friends for over twenty years, and I have willingly put up with your daily mental and physical abuse for the vast majority of our acquaintance. I have turned the other cheek insult after insult, hit after hit, noogie after noogie. I understand that you are diagnosed with an explosive rage disorder and thus I accept your frequent outbursts. I even admit it - usually our bumbling and infighting lead us to the solution to a mystery, the upstaging of a hoity-toity club's maitre'd, or even the hearts of three young ladies that end up going out with you, me, and Larry.
Nonetheless, this time, you just went a little too far. You can call me schmendrick, wiseguy, or even porcupine, but calling me kidneyless just hurts. You know as well as I do that I unfortunately lost both my kidneys two years ago. Every day that I go to the dialysis center to detoxify my blood, I am reminded of the accident and I do not need you reminding me of my plight.
And was it not your action that led to my kidney loss in the first place? Was it not you that secretly put super-hot chili powder in my clam bisque on that awful night two years ago? When I ate that fateful bisque, smoke came pouring out of my ears and I immediately started slapping my face and whooping. The hot steam scalded my ear canal, but fortunately my hearing came back after six months. My kidneys were not so fortunate, however. I had a severe allergic reaction to the super-hot chili powder, and the resultant toxins in my bloodstream overwhelmed my kidneys and my body subsequently invoked an auto-immune attack on the erstwhile perpetrative organ. Two days later, the doctor told me that he had to remove my kidneys or I would die within the week. The choice was easy.
I needed your emotional support throughout all this trauma, but when you came to the hospital you simply clamped a pliers on my tongue and twisted until my eyes became crossed. You then attempted to put more super-hot chili powder in my IV drip, and if it were not for the fact that Larry intervened by putting a live lobster in your pants, I would surely have died right then and there.
I accept that. It is the past, and I shall move on. But the fact that you keep calling me kidneyless hurts me to the essence of my being. If you do not refrain from bringing all these painful memories back, I shall have no recourse but to move out of our one-room apartment and move in with Shemp.