Hydrogen: What the hell, is Macbeth in the next room over?
Trillaphon: Yep, just got his tonsils out, now he's treating himself to some FroYo & Banjo Kazooie.
Trillaphon: "Ah, I see you've met our crack team of Gypsy Witch-Priestess Diagnosticians! Best this side of Dunsinane."
Hydrogen: "Doctor, she just wrote some gutteral chants in my chart in chicken blood then threw some monkey knuckles on the ground and spit in my mouth!"
Trillaphon: "What were you expecting, a lollipop? Grow up."
Trillaphon: That burger thing might be the best fake-out in (dumbass horror) movie history.
Hydrogen: Coming this fall...Quentin Tarantino IS: The Hamburglar.
Trillaphon: I'd probably try to kill the pain with booze and ketchup if I looked like him too. If Tarantino and Roman Polanski conceived a squishy misshapen abomination-baby, gave gross, sloppy manbirth to it on a big pile of chin putty, and then surgically grafted a Bob Hope death mask onto its face, that guy would look like Jon Hamm compared to this guy.
Hydrogen: Why - why do you do this to me?
Trillaphon: More important question: why is every person in this movie the evil one?
Hydrogen: I don't know, those gypsies can be kind of nice once you get to know them.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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