KARL: Pet. You seem ill at ease.BLAKE: I just don't feel like myself.KARL: Selves are just shoes we line with odor insoles. KICK. BLAKE: I just don't know why it has to BE this way. KARL: Because we made a decision.BLAKE: Who did?KARL: I and your rapacious lady medallions. The ones who treat every day like a prison break. BLAKE: Oh, right. So... um, what did you two... uh, three... talk about?KARL: How life is a tussle, so shank to win. BLAKE: ... And?KARL: And we've decided to muzzle them, dearest.BLAKE: Is that why I look like I'm squished into a very pretty, but very stiff, straitjacket?KARL: Do not be hamstrung by sight. FEEL.BLAKE: Yeah, well, I FEEL kind of like I'm itchy and choking.KARL: Itching is for the poor, darling. Don't scramble your nest egg for brunch.BLAKE: I probably don't eat brunch.KARL: Too bad. Because brunch is nature's mid-morning ointment. SLATHER.BLAKE: ... Amen?KARL: Yes. But Mass can't end until there are crudités. BLAKE: That sounds sacrilegious. KARL: Is is when there's pate involved. BLAKE: Never mind.