(slowly stirring beef stroganoff in a pot on the stove throughout the monologue.)
beef stroganoff. hear me out, gil. i’ve got beef stroganoff on the stove and i’ve got a hankering for beef stoganoff. and this … beast you put inside my womb really, really wants me to eat beef stroganoff. so we’re making that. but since i don’t know shit about beef stroganoff–hell, i don’t think i’ve even eaten it before–i had to go to walmart and buy chef boyardee. i had to. you come in here with that “i’m a foodie” swagger and i saw your nose crinkle when you smelled what was cooking in the pot. i get it. you hate it. you’re probably upset that i bought 20 cans of the stuff. call it an impulse buy because of this abomination slowly expanding in my stomach. this is their fault. (to womb in babyspeak) isn’t it? isn’t it your fault? yes it is, yes it is! (normal voice) a week ago it was toilet paper. gil i was taking a piss and i had the toilet paper in my hand and some god damn wiring in my brain broke, just broke right there, and i had to eat it. i had to eat the toilet paper. and i couldn’t just shove it in my mouth, no, it was a meal. i tore little pieces off and let them dissolve on my tongue. i had to taste it.
did you know that since women have two X chromosomes, if one has a defect it reduces the severity of the defect in general? meanwhile guys have XY so if their X chromosome fails, they’re a fucking wreck. this is the tradeoff to having a kid, gil. you have more of a chance to go crazy because of your genetics, but women, we always go nuts when we’re pregnant. my mom drank a bottle of bleach, three months along with allen, because she was thirsty. my neighbor’s mom would eat the stuffing out of a couch cushion when she was pregnant, and she had three kids. each time, couch cushion. couldn’t help it.
long story short: stop giving me the stinkeye and let me eat this fucking stroganoff.