Right, so they truck me off to me weekly at the Cuckoo's Nest. Everybody's happy I blew off the Bahamas. Less "access to substances" if I stay here.
One of them sawbones sez to me, "On behalf of the doctors and staff, may I wish you"—takes out a scrap of paper—"a happy pissack."
I look at him like he's a twat. He goes, "Pissack. Am I pronouncing that correctly?"
No clue what the fuck he's gobbing about. He starts to sweat, probably worried I'll ram me nail file in his guts again. He stammers, "Passover. A good Passover."