Timmy: Francine, I need me a woman who can make my house a home, not a woman who sticks Cadillacs in the rear window. Not a woman with highly variable income and highly variable enthusiasm for cooking and cleaning. Sometimes I come over and find you lighting up and watching cartoons and your shoes are on the floor and your jacket’s hanging off the couch arm and you’ve got fifteen wadded dollar bills stuck out your pocket like you pulled ‘em out of a vending machine, and there’s a pizza box sittin’ on the table, just sittin’ there. You’re not the woman for me.
Francine: Timmy, I love you, but you let me chase my first need, money, and we’re both gonna benefit from it. I’ll take care of you. You can buy yourself all the Dormeuil suits you need to impress other dudes.
Timmy: Honey, that’s not what it’s about. It’s your lifestyle. Your scuffed up shoes, your scuffed up jeans, your well-meaning attempts to actually care about other people that end up discarded whenever there’s a few bucks involved . . . I need a girl that’s stable, predictable. Who wears make up when we go out and doesn’t love driving cars more than she craves sex. I need a girl who doesn’t know how to load a handgun.
Francine: But baby. You knew all that about me before I picked you up. We grew up together, darling. You knew I don’t stand on ceremony. You knew I could hold my own in a fight. You knew I was poor.
Timmy: I thought you’d grow out of it, Frankie. But this is goodbye. I’ve hooked up with a lady doctor who cleans up awful nice and lets me decide what we drive.
Francine: Aw man, there goes Timmy. Guess I’ll go smoke a bit and send out some more resumes.
Francine’s Uncle Dennis: There you are again, taking up a whole couch that’s half mine. This is why I hate women. Selfish, eternally immature layabouts, the lot of them. You ought to be doing some cleaning, it’s in your nature, but the laziness in your nature’s even stronger, isn’t it. Look at that padding about your middle, and look at me. Not a hint of excess nothing. That’s because I’m a man and we can have perfect waterboard abs without half the effort your baby-bearing fat-nurturing gender needs. I hope you die in a car crash. I’m off to engage in some primal yawping with my male pals, and they are all male, worthless infantilized woman niece.
Lanette: Hey, Francine. I know you been sending out resumes, and I just got this sweet gig with a European ethnic caricature who needs more people who are good with cars and not asking too many questions. It’s totally legit!
Francine: What kind of cars?
Lanette: All kinds of cars! Also, I might need your help with totally-legit and completely-legal getaway driving on the side. You could be like the guy in Drive, you know, a black, female Ryan Gosling. Who doesn’t want that? I bet Timmy’d fall right back into your arms . . .
Francine: Hold up. Is there any money in any of this?
Lanette: There’s a five to ten percent chance of you making any profit at all. I mean, you also have to factor in that I’m completely unreliable and we have a 99% chance of running bloody and naked away from a massacre or an explosion or something.
Francine: I’m in.