Monty Python non sequitur thread

Have you confused your cat lately?

I’ve got a slug.

My hovercraft is full of eels.

My brain hurts!

[Gigantic foot descends and stomps someone flat.]

He’s pinin’ for the fjords.

Can we have your liver then?

Venezuelan beaver cheese?

It’s…

Right. Now write it a hundred times before sunup, or I’ll cut your balls off.

Good evening and welcome to ‘The Money Programme’. Tonight on ‘The Money Programme’, we’re going to look at money. Lots of it. On film, and in the studio. Some of it in nice piles, others in lovely clanky bits of loose change, some of it neatly counted into fat little hundreds, delicate fivers stuffed into bulging wallets, nice crisp clean cheques, pert pieces of copper coinage thrust deep into trouser pockets, romantic foreign money rolling against the thigh with rough familiarity, (starting to get excited) beautiful wayward curlicued banknotes, filigree copperplating cheek by jowl with tumbling hexagonal milled edges, rubbing gently against the terse leather of beautifully balanced bank books (collects himself) I’m sorry. But I love money. All money. I’ve always wanted money. (getting worked up again) To handle. To touch. The smell of the rain-washed florin. The lure of the lira. (standing on the desk) The glitter and the glory of the guinea. The romance of the rouble. The feel of the franc, the heel of the Deutschmark. The cold antiseptic sting of the Swiss franc, and the sunburnt splendor of the Australian dollar.
(sings to piano accompaniment) I’ve got ninety thousand pounds in my pajamas.
I’ve got forty thousand French francs in my fridge.
I’ve got lots and lots of lira,
Now the deutschmark’s getting dearer,
And my dollar bill could buy the Brooklyn Bridge.

I don’t have any ice creams; I’ve just got this albatross. ALBATROSS!

What makes you think she’s a witch?

I did my whole, “Serious offense” bit and then I waggled me wig!

Well, one day I was sitting at home threatening the kids, and I looked out of the hole in the wall and sees this tank drive up and one of Dinsdale’s boys gets out and he comes up, all nice and friendly-like, and says Dinsdale wants to have a talk with me. So he chains me to the back of the tank and takes me for a scrape 'round to Dinsdale’s. And Dinsdale’s there in the conversation pit with Doug and Charles Paisley, the baby crusher, and a couple of film producers and a man they called “Kierkegaard,” who just sat there biting the heads off whippets, and Dinsdale said, “I hear you’ve been a naughty boy, Clement,” and he splits me nostrils open and saws me leg off and pulls me liver out, and I said, “My name’s not Clement,” and then he loses his temper and nails my head to the floor.

I’ve just spent four hours burying the cat.

We’re going to have our budgie put down.