You act. You right. Him over there? Oh, he's our critic. No shit. Yeah, put us together
and we're a triple threat. Theology's 21. I'm impressed. Uh, Les, may I call you Les?
Please. Les, uh, me, Daniel here, and those two guys over there, well, what would you say
if I said that we weren't exactly of age? How are you kids doing tonight? Fantastic.
How does that make you feel? That she left you, I mean? You need to leave. That's hers,
isn't it? No. It's not exactly your style. Did you hear what I said? It's crooked. What?
The painting. It's crooked. Do I have your permission to fix it? You went through my drawer
without my permission. It's not my painting. It's not your drawer. It's not my painting. It's not
your place. You can't just sneak around and bring up things you know nothing about. The drawer wasn't
crooked. Neither is that painting. So that's a no? Fix it then. Get out, or I'll call the cops. We
both know you don't want them snooping around here. Or we can keep that between us. It's his ugly voice that I have forever here. The next, next, that voice that stinks of corpses, of a whiskey and of modern. It is the voice of nations, that thick voice of blood. Next, next, next.
And since then, each woman I've taken to bed seems to laugh in my arms and whisper through my head, next, next. All the naked and the dead should hold each other's hands as they watch me scream at night in a dream no one can understand. Next, next.
And when I'm not screaming in a voice from Brian Hollow, I stand on in the naked lines of the following and the followed. Next, next. One day I'll cut my legs off and bind myself.
Is it me? Is it me? I just told you to not blame yourself. Which is a nice way of saying I should, right? How can I not blame myself? After all, it was my...
Phallus. Stop. My phallus. I'm sorry, my phallus that started this whole mess.
Alright. It's, it's not that pretty, okay? It disgusts me too. But you know, I, I thought I knew how to use it.
Can we not discuss this right now? I just told you it's not your fault. Not my fault. Sure. Not my fault.
I mean, maybe that's why she was compelled to throw the pack out in the first place.
Maybe she didn't throw it out at all. Maybe it was thrown out by her.
Yeah, totally. Oh, I'm being serious. Take them. Seriously? They're yours. Oh my God, I love you.
Don't you want to broaden your horizons and see how the other half lives? I mean, the world is so much larger than just you and I.
What, like Chinese baby soldiers and shit?
Ugandan child soldiers.
Honestly, man, I don't want to give a fuck about kids. They're awful.
Right back at you. I'll see you at the Oscars.
Say hello.
