Sgt. Slaughter

OK: just checked out a health club by my house. I'm all like, "I just wanna see what the rates are for couples, and see if you have another club by my place of work."
He's all, "Your fat. What does the price matter, Fatty?"
"Hey, that's not cool."
"Whatever, Fatty McFatterson. You wanna join, Jiggles, or what?"
"Do you know Crystal?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
"So what'll it be Lard-O?"
"How much for the weekly beratement?"
"That's free, Chubby."
"Do you have a club by my place of work?"
"Does it matter? I mean, c'mon, fatso, we both know that this is your way of making yourself feel like you're doing something about that monstrous landmass that is your ass--"
"That's uncalled for."
"Whatever. What're you gonna do about it?"
"I'll write a scathing letter."
"Oooh."
"Look: if there's a club by my place of work, that'd work better for me, 'cause when I come home I'm too tired to do much of anything."
"Think it has anything to do with that baby seal you're carrying around under your shirt?"
"Dude--"
"That seal is eating your heart. EATING YOUR HEART."
"You're insane."
"You're fat."
"Oh, good one. I think we covered that."
"Hey, know what can cover your ass?"
"What."
"Probably nothing."
"Nice haircut, Sgt. Slaughter."
"Do you iron your pants in the driveway?"
"I'm going now."
"I could tell by the earth tremors and the way you blotted out the sun."
"You're a dick."
"You're fat."
...

"So, $49.95 a month?"
"Yeah, sign here."