Buster: Good. Okay, good. She wouldn't wear that.
Narrator: When his father didn't return, either, Buster stuck to his daily routine.
Buster: You're welcome.
Narrator: Laying out Mother's clothes...
Buster: All right. The vodka goes in, you pour it in the other...
Narrator: Making Mother's breakfast.
Buster: The olive on top and then you call your... Mother. This is bugging me.
Narrator: And amusing himself with little jokes he thought she'd appreciate.
Buster: Except for the hair. You have reduced. Well, you're not that skinny. Welcome home, chubs. [laughs] You will kill me for that. And I don't want that blood on my hands.