If there were a Best Grandfather of All-Time award, this guy would totally win.
I killed a man named Frank in 1987. He was a hitchhiker that I picked up in Utah.
I understand you wanted to see a film so badly you were brave enough to come on opening night to an R-rated movie with your grumpy offspring because you failed to find a sitter.
You may not know this yet, but you don’t want me. And if you don’t know this yet, then please figure it out right now.