I have kidnapped Mariska Hargitay.
You kept me waiting just that little bit too long.
On the bright side, I no longer give a damn about those Fruit Roll-Ups. 
A radioactive physicist (ah screw it, I can’t spell) who sings falsetto?
I see why Mindfield kidnapped him, that’s an oddity right there!
(All three of those people are dead, though, two of them after Cecil’s columns started. So who is he now?)
I can see we’re going to have to go over this again. The next remedial classes are at noon and four tomorrow. Can I pencil you in for one of those?
Wait, do people still say “pencil you in?” Do people do that for real anymore? Do they even still make pencils? I hate being anachronistic in this high tech world.
What? It’s perfect! It’s cruel, but not unusually so, and he has enough personality to keep you awake. I mean, I could have gone that extra mile and put on the videos, but then I’d run the risk of inducing a hallucinogenic state, and torture just doesn’t work properly when you’re stoned.
Oh for pity’s sake, you couldn’t have waited 'til the end of the season? Now I’ll never find out if the sexual tension between Benson and Stabler erupts into a passionate fling they both end up regretting.
Well, could you at least make a videotape or two? I think you owe the world that much. (Less of you, more of her, if you don’t mind.)
Not so much as you might think. You should have heard Jack Steinberger when I shot a concentrated beam of gamma radiation at his genitals. Live or Memorex, it didn’t matter: E above high C at 150dB. My entire wine service simply exploded. The cat hid in the underwear drawer and wouldn’t come out for days.
Jack’s doing porn now.
Jon Pertwee.