HBO presents "Kid Brothers"

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE - DAY

MIKEY: Hey, Petey, whatcha doin'?

PETEY: My godforsaken stomach has been growling like Curious George with Tourette's. Since the midday repast is nearly an hour away, I figured I'd take the problem in my own blue-mittened hands. I'm baking myself a chocolate cake.

MIKEY: Mmm. I love chocolate. Say, I'm finding myself with a bit of spare time, seeing as how my Hokey Pokey play date has unexpectedly cancelled. Perchance I might assist?

PETEY: Knock yourself out, kid. I didn't realize you enjoyed the motherfuckin' culinary arts.

MIKEY: I don't, really. I enjoy the eating arts.

PETEY: Well, we're a mere fifteen minutes away from digging our burgeoning ivories into a toothsome treat. I added a bunch of water to the cake mix and I'm ready to move onto the next step, but much as I hate to admit it, I can't read the back of the motherfuckin' box unless it's talking about the wheels on the motherfuckin' bus going round and round, or some such shit like that.

MIKEY: It says "Add half a cup of oil."

PETEY: Half a cup of oil? Shit. I won't need my Big Wheel to get around: masticate a slice of this confection and I can just slide from room to motherfuckin' room. Okay, next.

MIKEY: "Stir until moist."

PETEY: Moist? Moist as my motherfuckin' diaper, or moist as our mama's milk-swollen tits? It's already pretty goddamned damp. Now what?

MIKEY: "Pour batter into pan. Bake fifteen minutes on HIGH."

PETEY: Okay, it's in. Shit: this goddamned stove is colder than my weenie in winter. Our heretofore-trustworthy appliance ain't even remotely goddamned hot.

MIKEY: WAHHH! I WANT CAKE! YOU SAID WE WERE GONNA EAT CAKE!

PETEY: Christ, shut your motherfuckin' yap, ya whiny little brat -- it's an easy motherfuckin' fix. Go tell Dada we need another goddamned lightbulb. I gotta hit up Baby's First Crapper. (PAUSE) Oh, shit.

MIKEY: What? Has yet another unexpected problem arisen?

PETEY: Just go, you wee-dicked bastard. And if you've got any sense at all in that soft little head of yours, you won't crawl downwind.