DAD: Hey there Pumpkin.

LINDSAY: Don’t fuckin’ touch me you creep.

DAD: Lisa, remember me? Oh, I mean Lindsay. That’s right. Lindsay.

LINDSAY: No, I have no fuckin’ idea who you are. Did you see where I placed my Miller Lite?

DAD: Lisa, it’s me, your father. You know, the guy that wrote you from prison for the last 2 years?

LINDSAY: Huh? I have, like, 600 fans that write to me from prison. How the fuck do you expect me to remember you? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a 3pm meeting in the bathroom stall with a hot guy.

DAD: Praise Jesus! Can you spot me a couple grand?

LINDSAY: Um, no. I need a couple grand myself. Did you see what happened with my last movie? Have you seen my mom?

DAD: Oh, I saw that bitch the other day.

LINDSAY: Don’t call my mom a bitch. You don’t even know her. If you did, you would know she is referred to as “White Oprah.”

DAD: That dirty bitch snorts more coke than you and your whore friends combined. Uh, I mean Lisa, you always were Daddy’s little girl. So about that grand…

LINDSAY: Shit! I have to pick up my prescription and left my forged doctor’s note back in the rehab room I share with the bulimic chick.

DAD: Lisa…

LINDSAY: Who the fuck is Lisa?

DAD: Huh? Nevermind, about that grand…

LINDSAY: Fuck, here come those toilet-scrubbing rehab Nazis again. Hold this joint and pretend that you are my father.

DAD: But Lisa, I am your father.

LINDSAY: What-ev! OK! magazine will be here in a few minutes to take photos of me rehabilitating myself. Can you pretend to be my dad for that too? I always wanted a dad…

DAD: Whatever you say Pumpkin.

LINDSAY: Okay, and just remember, if they catch me with coke, I will say I am wearing your pants. And if I happen to get persecuted for vehicular manslaughter, I will say…

DAD: The Black kid did it!

LINDSAY: That’s right. The Black kid did it. Always blame the Blacks.