Twelve days of Christmas. Twelve Monkeys. Ocean’s Twelve. Oh God, what’s the point?
On the ninth, tenth and eleventh days of Christmas my true love gave to me my luck, my fate, my fortune. I wish I was dead.
Eight maids a milking. If I lay here. If I just lay here.
On the seventh day of Christmas, I went to your house. I tried to taste the life of a simple man. It didn’t work.
On the sixth day of Christmas. Mazel tov.
On the fifth day of Christmas. What do you get the man who has everything (and nothing)? A CD by Maroon Five? A carton of Five Alive?
I think you know what my true love got for me. It comes in a glass bottle, it’s made by Chanel and it’s for ladies. It is at once perplexing, ominous, terrible. Watch, I can communicate it to you wordlessly…
On the first, second, third and fourth days of Christmas my true love gave to me a whole bunch of different kinds of birds. Why the hell would she do that? Every second spent looking after birds is a second closer to death. Plans disappear, dreams take over. It’s not a journey. Every journey ends but we go on. What’re you talkin’ about, Thelma?
Let’s not get caught.
What do you mean?
Let’s keep goin’?
I’ve wet myself. Inevitable.