Picture that meal:  Mr. and Mrs. Dadler, an elderly host couple who had lived in the neighborhood since the 1940s, their six hundred pound daughter, the crazy neighbor lady and her neutered husband, and the crystal meth family, who brought over ambrosia salad in a filthy looking corningware dish, and one of whom (they rotated duty) was always running across the street to sell a gram or two of sh*t to someone new.

"It must be so nice," commented our elderly host's wife, "to have so many friends, who want to visit you at so many different times of the day."

You can't make lines that up, you really can't.

The Cranks were only evicted after psycho-son put his fist through a window, then threatened to cut his mother's throat with it.  I listened to the whole thing go down, including SWAT team takedown, while working on a screenplay I'd end up optioning to Universal.  Ah, the Rob Lowe script.  Too funny.  Hollywood is such a great freakshow.

I think I need some crystal now, Jaysus.

And I'll say it again: I heart Bryan Cranston.  Give it to thost anti-dentite bast*ards. (Seinfeld, anyone)