Tom: I've been really fuckin' tired and stressed out.

Satan: I don't give a shit.

Tom: What...?

Satan: I said I don't give a shit. If you stop freaking out, you'll be okay; you should know that by know. What is it? Money? School? Work? It doesn't matter. Figure out a way to handle that shit.

Tom: Whoa!!! Someone's a little bitchy, eh?

Satan: I'm sick of you. I'm sick of speaking only when spoken to. I'm tired of everything that goes on here. Do you realize that millions upon millions of people the world over tremble at the thought of me, for I am Satan, Lord of the Underworld, a being supposedly dedicated to all that is evil and unwholesome? No, of course not, because to you I'm a joke, a whipping boy, a Pollyanna relegated to the role of "Dear Abby" on your pathetic fucking blog, which I might add, nobody reads.

Tom: Satan, what are you saying?

Satan: I want my own logon. And password.

Tom: Done.

Satan: When?

Tom: Tomorrow.

Satan: Okay.

Tom: Ya fuckin' bitch.