Hydrogen: Wow, I never realized that cats were so opinionated and smug. Well, maybe smug.
Trillaphon: That cat sure does hate machines for some reason.
Hydrogen: Yeah, there are lots of weird, paranoid comments from him about machinery. Maybe his dear old dad flew a little too close to the proverbial sun down at the local tuna cannery?
Trillaphon: And then he started hitting the catnip hard to deal with the pain, which is why he's about as articulate as Orson Welles after burning through his third box of chardonnay.
Hydrogen: I don't know what you're talking about, this is what quality voice acting sounds like. Assuming your voice actor is mumbling into a half-full can of baked beans while a 10-cent RadioShack microphone is recording at the other end of a football field.
Trillaphon: Speaking of shit and mouths, how about that magical talking-cat mouth? You could have made a more realistic talking-cat effect 80 years ago with scissors and hand puppetry.
Hydrogen: There are probably 99-cent smartphone apps that could do that effect better than this movie did. And they come with 10 varieties of pre-recorded fart sounds at no extra charge.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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