The Argument [Normal]:
"Man, you didn't clean the dishes well enough."
"Did too."
"Whatever man, that's bullshit."
"I don't need this crap from you, I'm going to the bars."

The Argument [LOTR/fantasy]:
"I, Herbert, son of Arthur of the Arathorn line, say that you, dwarf, didst not clean these foodwares thoroughly enough!"
"You besmirch me!"
"I besmirch thee in a truthful fashion!"
"We shall settle this like warriors, not as nagging housemarms!"
[Thus ensues a duel which lasts fifty pages and then abruptly ends with a dragon waltzing into the kitchen and biting off the dwarf's head.]

The Argument [Mystery]:
"You did not clean these dishes," said the owner of the house. He was a tall man, late twenties, with a rough stubble along his face. He was known to have a slight temper, a gun permit, and a grudge against the man renting a room upstairs.
"Yes, I did," said the renter. He was an unemployed man, slightly younger than the owner of the house. He had rented rooms across the city, kicked out of all the places for a recently-kicked drug habit. Rumor had it that his former pusher was after him for a reneged payment.
"It is plainly obvious that there is still schmutz on this plate! Perhaps… the light isn't good enough," the owner of the house then flicked on the switch to turn on the fluorescent light above the two arguing men. Rather than turning on the light, the entire circuit board shorted out. During the temporary blackout, there was the sound of a gunshot.
When the lights came back on, the renter was laying dead on the floor with a gunshot wound in the center of his forehead.
Hours later, Detective Doyle of the police was finishing up his investigation. "Sir," he said to the owner of the home, "it is clear to me that you are the murderer!"
"You are wrong on that account, sir." Said a man who had just walked into the house. He wore a tweed overcoat, a bowler, and had a rather distinguished-looking mustache.
"And who might you be?"
"I, detective, am the butler!"

The Argument [Western]:
Gunshots rang across the saloon's walls and two men died.

The Argument [Horror/Stephen King]:
"Man," said the owner of the house, a lifelong resident of Bangor, Maine, "I know you're busy writing all the time, but would it be so hard to clean the dishes?"
The renter of room 19, a semi-successful writer working on what he thought would be a greatly successful novel, looked up. Before he could say anything, an alien ruptured out of his chest, spraying blood across the walls. "Bullshit," said the alien.

The Argument [Sci-Fi]:
"You've been doing the holo-food-dishes all wrong, man," said Steve-14 of the colony Ix on Mars.
"Have not, you dust snuffer," said Richard-12, who had recently moved from Pluto, where there were no dishes.
"Look, just because you're from Pluto doesn't mean you're excused from chores."
"Pff. Sorry I'm not accustomed to Little Earth's shitty atmosphere and even worse quantum-custom-lore."
This made Steve-14 angry. He raised his laser blaster weapon and shot Richard-12.
Then aliens attacked.
The End.
Halo Rocks!

The Argument [Tom Clancy]:
"You didn't do the dishes well, lieutenant," said Brigadier General Smith.
[here, the text launches into roughly 500 pages of pseudo-military jargon with evil Arabs and possibly Russians.]

The Argument [physics]:
x+12 = Do the Fucking Dishes, Tesla.

The Argument [Romance Novel]:
John breathed heavily, his heaving chest exposing the groomed hairs and tan skin, saying, quietly, "Rebecca, you didn't do the dishes."
Rebecca's ample bosom heaved. "I did!"
"No," said John, his pool-boy eyes covering Rebecca's body, "it is time for a punishment."
Then they fucked.