"Where's my fuckin' wife?"

[delete tripped over David]

Michael Pallin or some reasonable facimile thereof queried. "Is everything Zen, Allan?"

"Who do you think I am, mother fucker? Gavin Fucking Rossdale? I don't give a fucking fuck about zen! Now where's my fucking wife?"

Something was going to have to be done.

In comes Pat Croce, proclaiming, "I feel great! And Allen, you can too!"

*BLAM* *BLAM*

"I been waitin' to do that, you know, for a long time... I don't need to take your shit, you know, now that, you know, you don't sign my, you know, pay check any more."

"We're talking about a paycheck here. A paycheck. A paycheck. Not volunteering. A paycheck. We're talking about a paycheck here. Not volunteering, a paycheck."

No longer would Pat live in a van down by the river. An Irish wake...

..was out of the question, as it implied an open bar and a large tab. Instead the joyful group, which by this time had closely bonded, quickly moved to...

ChiChi's. A celebration of food ensued.

Little did they know that the "ground beef" the restaurant was serving was actually dog meat.

But FRESH dog meat, so they were spared the cramping and vomiting that plagued the con agra supplied Don Pablo's on the opposite side of the highway. The Chimichanga Chihuahua Fajitas were sizzling and the Mango-glazed...

Saint Bernard was as tasty as ever. Ignorance, it seems, is bliss.

Griff ordered the Fried Ice Cream to top off a great dinner.

However, the double shot of Triple Sec wasn't settling so well

Cooling his fevered brow against the damp chill of porceline, Griff rededicated himself to...

...buying every available issue made of the Turkish version of Playboy.