Miss Marilyn Monroe Pees Only in her Litterbox

Or, the fine art of eavesdropping...
The scene: a sushi restaurant in Japantown, San Francisco, Wednesday night (yesterday).
The players: two men in their late twenties sitting in the next booth. One blond American who looks like he walked out of a Ralph Lauren ad. One tall, dark Frenchman in a form-fitting cream-colored turtleneck.

Frenchie: Listen, I got home, I was exhausted, it was ten o'clock at night, and my room was full of cat piss.
Ralph: It was eight o'clock.
Frenchie: It was ten o'clock! My plane was delayed! I got in at nine, so--
Ralph: You were on Burbank time.
Frenchie: I--wait, Burbank is the same time zone.
Ralph: No it's not.
Frenchie: Well, but--wait, yes it is. Fuck! Listen! I got in at nine, so I'm home at ten, I'm completely exhausted, and you've locked my fucking cat in my room. The cat has pissed everywhere and shat on the bed. What would you do if I locked your cat in your room when you were gone?
Ralph: I'd laugh. I'd get the fucking joke. Except it wouldn't happen to me, because Miss Marilyn Monroe is a princess, she doesn't pee anywhere except her litterbox. Your cat is psycho. It was pissing everywhere. It was my bed or yours. If you want it to stop, get it neutered.
Frenchie: Listen, I was saving up. Do you know how much it costs to castrate a fucking cat?
Ralph: Yeah, it's free.
Frenchie: It's five hundred fucking dollars!
Ralph: No, it's free.
Frenchie: No, look, I called. It's five hundred fucking--
Ralph: Yeah, because you're a moron and you didn't call the SPCA.
Frenchie: Listen, I'm working on it! This doesn't mean you can just lock my cat--I mean, there was cat piss everywhere!
Ralph: Well, at least it got you out of your room for once.
Frenchie: Why do you care if I'm in my room? I come home at the end of the day, I'm tired, I don't bother you, so why is this such a problem?
Ralph: Why is it a problem that there's a French bastard in my apartment who spends all his time locked in his bedroom masturbating? Look, yeah, that bothers me! I try to have fun, I say "Hey, let's go get something to eat," I invite friends over--
Frenchie: And then you tell them I have been in my bedroom masturbating. This does not make me feel so sociable, you know?
Ralph: Look, they knew I was joking.
Frenchie: Listen. I have thought about this thing you said. I understand you were drunk, I'm not going to be mad at you for what you say when you're drunk. I will let this pass. But my cat--

Etc. This conversation continued the entire time we were there, eating our sushi in the adjacent booth and trying to stifle our laughter. As we were getting up to leave:
Me (to Frenchie): 'Scuse me for eavesdropping, but you guys should write a screenplay, seriously. Listening to your argument is so entertaining. It's like something out of a Tarantino movie.
Frenchie: Well, thank you. But it is not an argument, really. It's--you know, two people working out their issues, I don't know what you would call it, but--
Me: A discussion?
Frenchie: A discussion, yes. Not an argument.