Two guys walk into a bar, see? Okay… and one of these guys, well… he’s not really a guy, exactly, okay? Follow me so far?

Certain doom? I spit in your face, you flimsy cardboard sideshow attraction.

I distinctly heard a Mexican rhythm combo. Did I say something just then? Did you?

Is it a southern moon? Hard to tell from space. Everything is relative, relatively speaking. I even have relatives in my band.

Scuttle me britches, sons-of-a-bitches. Hast the moist hizzen, for shizzle.

Even if you could talk faster, I couldn’t type any faster, so it wouldn’t do any good.

How do I know about those transmitters they put in your head? A little voice told me.

Six-eleven. Hell, that’s 9-11 turned upside-down, isn’t it?

Tell me what I say right now. Or rather, I’ll tell you.

I fell in through a burning ring of fire. Need I draw you a picture? Okay, then.