Holden and Cone Man discuss the night

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Holden:  On such a cold night, I fear, Good Sir, for your health.

Cone Man:  Are you freakin' kiddin' me!  It's fantastic out here.  Dark and cold bring out the best in me.

H:  If I may be so bold, my fiberglass friend, your eyes appear to be losing their color, and leaves have fallen on your head.

CM:  Leaves have fallen?  You clearly need some glasses, because those aren't just leaves; they're part of my fall wreath.  It's decorative wreath season, motherfucker!

H:   I must insist, Sir, that you refrain from such profanity.  I simply will not have it.

CM:  Oh, you won't have it?  Well, bite my curly tip, you spoiled house dog!  You'd fuckin' curse, too, if you had to sit outside all the time, with only delivery people to admire your decorative wreath. 

H:  If you cannot engage in civil discourse, and you clearly cannot, then I must take my leave and return to one of my many luxurious pillow beds--all of which sit inside yon beckoning warm home.

CM:  Fine.  Go inside and lick your junk.  See if I care.  See if I let you wear my wreath!

The moral of this story is simple:  No one can please a cranky Cone Man.