"Thursday, goddamn fucking meatloaf night," Brian sighed. "As it was, is now, and ever shall goddamn fucking be."
"What the fuck are ya goddamn fuckin' gettin' at?" Peter asked.
"Well, you're always trying to goddamn fucking teach me to be goddamn fucking open-minded, try new goddamn fucking things, live goddamn fucking life to…"
"The fuck are ya goddamn fuckin' talkin' about? Nobody's goddamn fuckin' tryin' to goddamn fuckin' teach ya that!" Peter squirted the ketchup onto his meatloaf. Because the ketchup bottle was running empty, it made a noise resembling that of flatulence. Baxter and Peter heard this noise and began chuckling at the juvenile fartiness of a container filled with salty tomato semen.
"Hehehehehehehe…" Peter laughed, in his trademark, fast-paced, nasally laugh.
"Shut the fuck up, you two," Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. "I swear, sometimes I goddamn fucking think I'm married to a goddamn fucking child."
Peter looked at Lois dead in the eyes. "You better goddamn fuckin' watch who you're goddamn fuckin' callin' a goddamn fuckin' child, Lois," he retorted. "Because if I'm a goddamn fuckin' child, you goddamn fuckin' know what that goddamn fuckin' makes you? A goddamn fuckin' pedophile. And I'll be goddamn fuckin' fucked if I'm gonna goddamn fuckin' sit here and be goddamn fuckin' lectured by a goddamn fuckin' pervert."
"FUCK YOU!" Lois hissed like a goose with a bun in the oven.
"NO, FUCK YOU!" Peter screamed like a dying chimpanzee in heat.
"I WANT A goddamn fucking GODDAMN DIVORCE!" Lois wailed like a banshee with a crack pipe in its hands.
"Lovely," Stewie snarked. He reached into his pocket, whipped out a little white joint, and lit it. He inserted it into his mouth and took a puff.
"If anyone needs me, I'll be in my room," Squidward spat in pure contempt for the entire shit show unfolding in front of him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask with Tomo Takino's face on it. He dumped the contents of the flask into his mug of Dunkin' S'mores-flavored coffee and downed the entire thing with the gulp of a baleen whale on the prowl for an infestation of krill.
Baxter looked at the coffee, which appeared to be auspiciously delectable, like a bottled batch of Irish red ale perched on a shelf otherwise stocked with legions of Miller and Budweiser six-packs. "Dude, can I have a drink of that?" he inquired.
"No," Squidward flatly replied. Without another word, Squidward walked out of the dining room and marched up the winding, steep steps into his room, and plopped himself down onto his violet, bamboo-built bed, where he was promptly cradled into a deep slumber by the soft, marshmallowy memory foam mattress.
"...goddamn fucking goddamn hell."
Later into the brisk night, Baxter hopped around the neighborhood, on the prowl for entertainment of any sort, to distract himself from the traumatic image of Peter and Lois' nasty dinnertime fight, which replayed through his walnut-sized brain about as pleasantly as the idea of Hand Shakers being narrated by Jerry Springer. As he strolled around in the desolate midnight darkness, he saw a light coming from the south. With curiosity, he creeped toward the light, calling out to him like a siren song.
With finality, the light struck his eyes like daggers, causing them to bleed as they began rapidly shifting between hues of scarlet and violet. His brain, already held together with Scotch tape and Elmer's glue, just melted into a puddle of improperly-stored limburger.
He found his entire field of vision swarming with the sights of flame-engulfed fairies. All of them were wearing the same things: black leather boots drowning in buckles and laces, punctuated with blackish-purple fishnet stockings, spiked choker collars with dog tags hanging lowly into their ample cleavage, torn-up black tank tops barely covering their balloon-like bosoms, and amethyst daisy dukes that don't bother covering half of their buttocks.
Baxter reached his paw out to one. It winked at him and stuck its tongue out seductively, a single strand of saliva connecting the tongue with its top-left canine tooth, before they grotesquely morphed into meth-addicted warthogs with the bodies and slimy coating of dead hagfish. With the deafeningly high pitch of a newborn Rosie being pinched by Caillou and the maddeningly harsh volume of a man receiving BDSM without a ball-gag, Baxter screeched like a Spartan banshee on crack cocaine. He hopped out of the horrifyingly bleeding scene with the grace and discretion of a drunken elephant trying to sneak into a log cabin. He, uh… "deftly" lept straight into the road, where a black 2016 Jeep Cherokee with broken headlights rammed straight into the poor rabbit's skull.
A repetitive, robotic beeping noise reverberated throughout the lucky lagomorph's ear drums, his field of vision overlaid with MS Paint-quality gaussian blur.
"Look, he's waking up!" a nasally feminine voice warned.
"Baxter, buddy!" an equally-nasally masculine voice greeted.
Baxter blinked a few times, trying to keep a tight grip on his consciousness. "W-What? W-Where am I?"
"Unfortunately, alive," a deep and deadpan masculine voice snarked. Baxter blinked his turn signals for a moment or two, before slowly powering on, the blur settling into a clear picture.
"Ya see us?" the nasally masculine voice queried. It was none other than Peter Griffin. Standing beside him were Lois and Brian. Peter appeared to be happy to see Baxter waking up, but Lois and especially Brian seemed to be dour.
"I'm outta here," Lois flatly spat.
"Call us when he dies, Peter," Brian followed.
"Fucking dog," Baxter moaned deliriously.
"Ah, you don't need them," Peter reassured Baxter. "We can have fun, just us guys. Lemme check ya outta here and we'll grab a drink."
"Make it an aquarium," Baxter requested.
"Boy, ya read my mind!"