The point

It used to drive me nuts when I'd go looking for the butter and Biffo would have stuck it back in the fridge. See we only used the proper stuff, made out of salt and cow juice, and sure if you kept it in the fridge its only valid use would be for home defence or maybe crushing ice for mojitos.

And I'd get right wound up about stuff back in the day, but I didn't like to cause conflict so I'd generally just rant and fume to myself for a bit.

It didn't help that we had this routine breakfast/dinner thing. For about half a year we had a big fry up for brekkie with bacon and hostages and beans and eggs. And then another one for dinner.
And all with the toast, sure what's a fry without toast? a travesty, that's what it is. And where would the butter for the fucking toast be? in the poxy fridge, thats where.

So, on one of the days, while I stood there trying not to grate the toast into bready pulp as I rubbed the frozen block around it in the hope of melting on an ether-thin layer of buttery goodness,
I says: whats the story with putting the butter back in the poxy bastard fridge every time I turn my back, you sneaky weird freakily impractical cuntybollix?

he says: you have to put it back in the fridge, thats the point of hard butter.

What the? who? hard butter? what the fuck?

There's no point sometimes, you're not talking to a person so much as a bundle of weird reactions arising from muddled and hazy and not-really-there-at-all thought processes and memories.

Thats the point of hard butter. seriously, what the fuck?