Because there's no fucking Concorde, it's taking Gil a fucking sight longer than we fucking expected to get out here. At least it's fucking giving him some time to do some fucking research on Cher's pool.
Which fucking worked out too because it gave me time to make sure my fucking kit was fucking tight. Jon bought this new fucking dryer with a fucking titanium alloy drum. It gets really fucking hot -- fucking hotter than any fucking aluminium drum can fucking get -- which makes fucking sure my fucking speedos are tight. It's like me and the fucking speedos are fucking one, man.
It also gave me some fucking time to perfect my fucking technique. To get the fucking friction right I have to making sure I fucking move the fucking sweeper like the arm on the fucking space shuttle. I fucking worked on the pool until it fucking sparkled like never before. Hours of work and I was fucking *there*, man. Jon came down and said, "This fucking pool! Look at that fucking water!"
"I know," I said.
"I've got to fucking swim in this. I...I have to swim in this fucking pool right fucking now!" So he dove in without looking. Lucky for him, his raft was already fucking inflated. "I fucking knew it'd be ready, man. You were fucking born to clean pools so there was no fucking way you'd miss any fucking details. That's fucking pride, man. That's fucking awesome."
Pride. Yeah, I'm fucking ready for Cher's pool, bitch.