I don't want to clear the snow but that's the only way my lunatic wife will forget about beating me with that goddamn stick and leave the house long enough for me to look at the weird lumps on my penis and order Dominos pizza.
Look, I don't ask you what's in your box when you ask me to carry it from your trunk into a small, shallow grave in the desert. I don't ask why it's moving and moaning. I don't ask why it knows your name. I don't ask anything. I'm a friend and I'd appreciate it if you'd do me the same kindness, Stan. Jesus fucking Christ.
No worries, dude. The train goes backwards, too. The painful nightmare of physical existence will soon be over. Just chillax until it happens, dawg.