"Chin up, 'Roldy. 'S not the end of the world."
"But it is," cried Harold, scrubbing at his face with his hands and then pinning a pretty decent glare onto Kumar, who shrugged.
"Okay. Fair enough. As of this moment, it does seem somewhat apocalyptic. Bombs are flying, people are dying..."
"I hate you, Kumar! My fucking world crashes down and you're fucking singing that Big Gay Al song? Fuck you! You total dick! Christ, do you have to make fun of my very real pain? You fucking dick!"
"Makes you rethink pussy, huh? Everything is thuper when you're gay," remarked Kumar dryly.
"And shut up about the gay stuff!" Harold's face was going totally red. Like, we're talkin' sex red. And then he seemed to burst into tears or something, and hid his face behind his hands again, and moaned pathetically. "I am not gay! You know I'm not. You know I love Maria - so much, dude. And if I knew you were gonna spend the rest of our fucking lives ribbing me about it, I never would've let you... never would've let you do that..."
"Let me do what, man? Fuck you up the ass and make you totally love it? You can say it. Nobody's around."
"Fuck you! I hate you!"
Here, Kumar actually paused and laid a tentative hand on Harold's rigid shoulder. Gamely, he said, "Quit bein' sensitive, dude. I'm just dickin' around with you. You get so damn jumpy and defensive and paranoid and shit when you're blitzed."
"I'm not being paranoid!" Harold insisted.
"Dude. You're so fucking stoned out of your mind."
"I know," moaned Harold. "So... fucking... dude, Kumar, she wasn't even gonna tell me. Who the fuck does she think I am? I gotta hear it from fucking Goldstein?"
"She's a cunt. A disease-ridden, floppy grandmother cunt."
"I loved her."
"I know. I know you did."
Harold gave a massive sniff, wiped his eyes, and blew out a huge breath. His tie was still compulsively neat and tight around his neck, and after a few moments of swallowing back tears, he reached up and worked his fingers into the knot of it.
"C'mon, pathetic," said Kumar, standing and pulling at Harold's biceps. "Let Daddy take you to bed."
"Shut up." Harold whacked him, hard, in the side. "Don't touch me."
"You shut up. C'mon. Doctor's orders."
He tugged patiently, and Harold somehow heavily got to his feet, with Kumar pulling on him. Then he collapsed in a red-faced, red-eyed, pained slump against him, and Kumar patted him awkwardly on the back.
"'S okay, dude," he said, gently and factually. "The sun'll come out tomorrow."
"Stop - quoting - musicals - at me," sobbed Harold. "You know they - make me cry."
"Shyeah, I know," Kumar said fondly. "Who was handing you tissues during Reefer Madness: The Movie Musical? C'mon, seriously. I'm gonna get your baked ass in bed." Then, he sort of grinned, and added, "Totally nasty and wrong ass-fucking optional. But you should know, nothin' like gettin' reamed to make you forget the two-faced whore down the hall."
He expected Harold to come leaping to Maria's defense - he always did - or to get all over-sensitive and pissy about the gay stuff, also as he always did. But to his surprise, Harold sniffed, then said, "'Kay. But... I'm not callin' you Daddy again."
"Uh-huh," said Kumar grandly. "I think you'll be callin' me all kinds of nasty shit ten minutes in, man, when you're ridin' me like a cheetah. Now get your ass in gear. I've got weed, I've got wood... an' I got you, dude. I got you."
And at that, Harold actually kind of smiled.