Homer: Okay, Gabriel, this is a bar. It's where I go to drink alcohol, which is the mortal equivalent of your ambrosia.
Gabriel: Homer, I am not an angel.
Homer: Pfft. Well not with that temper.
Homer: (Later and drunk) Look, the thing about my family is, there's five of us: Marge, Bart, Girl Bart, the one who doesn't talk, and the fat guy. How I loathe him. (Falls off the barstool)
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