Frasier: So, that, Margaret is why your marriage is doomed. Get the fuck out of it.
Frasier: ANYWAY! FUCK IT PLENTY! ROZ! ROZ! Who’s our next caller?
Roz: We have no callers.
Frasier: FUCKIN’ JERKOFFS. Why not?
Roz: They’re sick of you swearing at them and giving rotten advice.
Frasier: Heh. Well, what other advice is there to give to a bunch of rotten fuckin’ apples?
(Frasier leans back on his chair with his feet on the desk.)
Frasier: Right, that’s it, shut the microphone off, you stinkin’ broad. Let’s play a song. Here’s the latest smash from Zoomeister, Kidnapping a bear.
Oh, lure the cunt out with a pear, whoa! Kidnapping a bear…
Frasier: Cheers for that. Oi, you. (Points at Roz through the glass.) What you up to tonight clitchops?
Roz: I’m on a date.
Frasier: COLOUR MY COCK surprised.
Roz: Go fuck yourself.
Frasier: Don’t have to, I’ve got this.
(Frasier produces a picture of a dog he’s cut a hole in. He puts it over his face so that his tongue pokes through the hole, like the dog has his tongue.)
Frasier: Oh yeah…(Frasier begins to undo his trousers and slips a hand down the front. Roz starts to gag.)
Roz: Oh my GOD! What the hell are you doing?
Frasier: UNGH. FUCK YOU! (He flips a “V” sign at Roz, while wanking with the other hand. Roz leaves, shaking with shock. Frasier is alone, tugging himself off in his sick dog mask. The audience are silent. The show fades to no credits. Frasier is cancelled a week later.)