Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!
Are … are you suggesting that we should eat my Mum?
You can’t expect to weild supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you!
(and it’s “moistened bink”)
I’m here for an argument!
Explain the logic underlying that conclusion.
God, I love this!
Well, It’s one pound for a five minute argument, but only eight pounds for a course of ten.
We are no longer the Knights who say ‘Ni’. We are now the Knights who say ‘Eckey-eckey-eckey Wa-pang Zoop Boing Gazowie’.
NI!!!
Shhh!
Hello mum, hello dad. There’s a dead bishop on the landin’.
It’s.
(The second shortest MontyPython quote.)
Nu
No, no, that’s not quite it …
Grunties.
There! I’ve run rings around you log-i-c-ally!
Your Majesty is like a stream of bat’s piss.
I can’t buy that, it’s torn!
It’s wafer thin!
I think we should end this on a musical note:
Some things in life are bad,
They can really make you mad,
Other things just make you swear and curse…
Come on everybody…
Making it worse?!? How can it possibly get any worse?!?
Jehovah! Jehovah!
And now…
It’s…
The Longest MP Quote:
Yes I quite agree with you, I mean what’s the point of being treated like a sheep, I mean I’m fed up going abroad and being treated like a sheep, what’s the point of being carted around in busses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea, “Oh they don’t make it properly here do they not like at home” stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they overdid it on the first day and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney’s Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there’s bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin’ Watney’s Red Barrel, and then one night they take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing “Torremolinos, Torremolinos”, and complaining about the food, “Oh! It’s so greasy isn’t it?” and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr. Scholl sandals and Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres and sending tinted postcards of places they don’t know they haven’t even visited, “to all at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’. Wish you were here. Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvelous little place hidden away in the back streets where you can even get Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps” and the accordionist plays “Maybe its because I’m a Londoner”’ and spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney’s sandwiches and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are vomiting and throwing up on the plastic flowers and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland waiting to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can pick you up on the tarmac at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac until six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of the Air Traffic Control in Paris, and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at eight, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing Enterovioform tablets and queuing for the toilets and when you finally get to the hotel there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are double-booked and you can’t sleep anyway…
Bring Out Your Dead!
:eek: