KARL: Pet. You seem ill at ease.
BLAKE: I just don't feel like myself.
KARL: Selves are just shoes we line with odor insoles. KICK.
BLAKE: I just don't know why it has to BE this way.
KARL: Because we made a decision.
BLAKE: Who did?
KARL: I and your rapacious lady medallions. The ones who treat every day like a prison break.
BLAKE: Oh, right. So... um, what did you two... uh, three... talk about?
KARL: How life is a tussle, so shank to win.
BLAKE: ... And?
KARL: And we've decided to muzzle them, dearest.
BLAKE: Is that why I look like I'm squished into a very pretty, but very stiff, straitjacket?
KARL: Do not be hamstrung by sight. FEEL.
BLAKE: Yeah, well, I FEEL kind of like I'm itchy and choking.
KARL: Itching is for the poor, darling. Don't scramble your nest egg for brunch.
BLAKE: I probably don't eat brunch.
KARL: Too bad. Because brunch is nature's mid-morning ointment. SLATHER.
BLAKE: ... Amen?
KARL: Yes. But Mass can't end until there are crudités.
BLAKE: That sounds sacrilegious.
KARL: Is is when there's pate involved.
BLAKE: Never mind.
Say it loud:
I LOVE that dress. I love the dress, but SHE seems like she doesn't quite know how to feel about it. I LIKE the dress, but it does kind of look like a classy chest tourniquet. Eh. It's not my taste.
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