Meaning of Life

Hospital Administrator:
And what are you doing this morning?

Obstetrician:
It's a birth.

Hospital Administrator:
Ah. And what sort of thing is that?

Dr. Spenser:
Well, that's where we take a new baby out of a lady's tummy.

Hospital Administrator:
Wonderful what we can do nowdays.

Noel Coward:
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Here's a little number I tossed off recently in the Caribbean.

Noel Coward:
Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis? / Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong? / It's swell to have a stiffy. / It's divine to own a dick, / From the tiniest little tadger / To the world's biggest prick. / So, three cheers for your Willy or John Thomas. / Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake, / Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend, / Your Percy, or your cock. / You can wrap it up in ribbons. / You can slip it in your sock, / But don't take it out in public, / Or they will stick you in the dock, / And you won't come back.

Grim Reaper:
Englishmen, you're all so f***ing pompous. None of you have got any balls.

Grim Reaper:
Shut up, you American. You Americans, all you do is talk, and talk, and say "let me tell you something" and "I just wanna say." Well, you're dead now, so shut up.

Father:
The mill's closed. There's no more work. We're destitute.

Father:
I'm afraid I have no choice but to sell you all for scientific experiments.

Gaston:
You see that house? That is where I was born. My mother said to me, "Garcon. The world is a beautiful place, and you must spread joy and contentment everywhere you go". And so I became a waiter... Well, I know it is not a great philosophy but...

Gaston:
Well, f*** you. I can live my life in my own way if I want to.

Gaston:
F*** off. Don't come following me.

Chaplain:
Let us praise God. O Lord...

Chaplain:
...Ooh, You are so big...

Chaplain:
...So absolutely huge.

Chaplain:
Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.

Chaplain:
Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying, and...

Chaplain:
But You are so strong and, well, just so super.

Humphrey:
Amen.

Maitre d':
Good evening sir and how are we today?

Mr. Creosote:
Better.

Maitre d':
Better?

Mr. Creosote:
Better get a bucket. I'm gonna throw up.

Paitent:
What do I do?

Dr. Spenser:
Nothing dear, you're not qualified.

Humphrey:
So, just listen. Now, did I or did I not... do... vaginal... juices?

Humphrey:
Name two ways of getting them flowing, Watson.

Watson:
R - rubbing the clitoris, sir?

Humphrey:
What's wrong with a kiss, boy? Hmm? Why not start her off with a nice kiss? You don't have to go leaping straight for the clitoris like a bull at a gate. Give her a kiss, boy.

Wymer:
Suck the nipple, sir?

Humphrey:
Good. Good. Well done, Wymer.

Humphrey:
Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Hmm?

Humphrey:
Yes. Good. Nibbling the earlobe, uhh, kneading the buttocks, and so on and so forth. So, we have all these possibilities before we stampede towards the clitoris, Watson.

Watson:
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

Harry Blackitt:
Look at them, bloody Catholics, filling the bloody world up with bloody people they can't afford to bloody feed.

Mrs. Blackitt:
What are we dear?

Harry Blackitt:
Protestant, and fiercely proud of it.

Mrs. Blackitt:
Hmm. Well, why do they have so many children?

Harry Blackitt:
Because... every time they have sexual intercourse, they have to have a baby.

Mrs. Blackitt:
But it's the same with us, Harry.

Harry Blackitt:
What do you mean?

Mrs. Blackitt:
Well, I mean, we've got two children, and we've had sexual intercourse twice.

Harry Blackitt:
That's not the point. We could have it any time we wanted.

Mrs. Blackitt:
Really?

Harry Blackitt:
Oh, yes, and, what's more, because we don't believe in all that Papist claptrap, we can take precautions.

Mrs. Blackitt:
What, you mean... lock the door?

Harry Blackitt:
No, no. I mean, because we are members of the Protestant Reformed Church, which successfully challenged the autocratic power of the Papacy in the mid-sixteenth century, we can wear little rubber devices to prevent issue.

Mrs. Blackitt:
What d'you mean?

Harry Blackitt:
I could, if I wanted, have sexual intercourse with you...

Mrs. Blackitt:
Oh, yes, Harry.

Harry Blackitt:
...and, by wearing a rubber sheath over my old feller, I could insure... that, when I came off, you would not be impregnated.

Mrs. Blackitt:
Ooh.

Harry Blackitt:
That's what being a Protestant's all about. That's why it's the church for me. That's why it's the church for anyone who respects the individual and the individual's right to decide for him or herself. When Martin Luther nailed his protest up to the church door in fifteen-seventeen, he may not have realised the full significance of what he was doing, but four hundred years later, thanks to him, my dear, I can wear whatever I want on my John Thomas...

Harry Blackitt:
... and, Protestantism doesn't stop at the simple condom. Oh, no. I can wear French Ticklers if I want.

Mrs. Blackitt:
You what?

Harry Blackitt:
French Ticklers. Black Mambos. Crocodile Ribs. Sheaths that are designed not only to protect, but also to enhance the stimulation of sexual congress.

Mrs. Blackitt:
Have you got one?

Harry Blackitt:
Have I got one? Uh, well, no, but I can go down the road any time I want and walk into Harry's and hold my head up high and say in a loud, steady voice, 'Harry, I want you to sell me a condom. In fact, today, I think I'll have a French Tickler, for I am a Protestant.'

Mrs. Blackitt:
Well, why don't you?

Harry Blackitt:
But they - Well, they cannot, 'cause their church never made the great leap out of the Middle Ages and the domination of alien Episcopal supremacy.

Humphrey:
All right, settle down. Settle down... Now, before I begin the lesson, will those of you who are playing in the match this afternoon move your clothes down onto the lower peg immediately after lunch, before you write your letter home, if you're not getting your hair cut, unless you've got a younger brother who is going out this weekend as the guest of another boy, in which case, collect his note before lunch, put it in your letter after you've had your hair cut, and make sure he moves your clothes down onto the lower peg for you. Now...

Wymer:
Sir?

Humphrey:
Yes, Wymer?

Wymer:
My younger brother's going out with Dibble this weekend, sir, but I'm not having my hair cut today, sir.

Wymer:
So, do I move my clothes down, or...

Humphrey:
I do wish you'd listen, Wymer. It's perfectly simple. If you're not getting your hair cut, you don't have to move your brother's clothes down to the lower peg. You simply collect his note before lunch, after you've done your scripture prep, when you've written your letter home, before rest, move your own clothes onto the lower peg, greet the visitors, and report to Mr. Viney that you've had your chit signed.

Lady Presenter:
Hello, and welcome to 'The Middle of the Film', the moment where we take a break to invite you, the audience, to join us, the film-makers, in 'Find the Fish'. We're going to show you a scene from another film and ask you to guess where the fish is, but, if you think you know, don't keep it to yourselves. Yell out so that all the cinema can hear you. So, here we are with... 'Find the Fish'.

Lady Presenter:
Well, that's the end of the film. Now, here's the meaning of life.

Lady Presenter:
Thank you, Brigitte.

Lady Presenter:
M-hmm. Well, it's nothing very special. Uh, try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations. And, finally, here are some completely gratuitous pictures of penises to annoy the censors and to hopefully spark some sort of controversy, which, it seems, is the only way, these days, to get the jaded, video-sated public off their f***ing arses and back in the sodding cinema. Family entertainment? Bollocks. What they want is filth: people doing things to each other with chainsaws during tupperware parties, babysitters being stabbed with knitting needles by gay presidential candidates, vigilante groups strangling chickens, armed bands of theatre critics exterminating mutant goats. Where's the fun in pictures? Oh, well, there we are. Here's the theme music. Goodnight.

Hospital Administrator:
Ah, I see you have the machine that goes ping. This is my favorite. You see we lease it back from the company we sold it to and that way it comes under the monthly current budget and not the capital account.

Hospital Administrator:
Thank you, thank you.

Strange Man:
And it went... wherever I... did go.

Maria the cleaning woman:
I used to work in the Académie Française / but it didn't do me any good at all. / And I once worked in the library in the Prado in Madrid / But it didn't teach me nothing I recall. / And the Library of Congress you would have thought would hold some key / but it didn't and neither did the Bodlean Library. / In The British Museum I hoped to find some clue / I worked there from nine till six / Read every volume through / But it didn't teach me nothing about life's mystery. / I just kept getting older, it got more difficult to see. / Till eventually me eyes went and me arthritis got bad. / So now I'm cleaning up in here but I can't be really sad. / Cause you see I feel that life's a game. / You sometimes win or lose. / And though I may be down right now at least I don't work for Jews.

General:
But of course warfare isn't all fun. Right, stop that! It's all very well to laugh at the military, but when one considers the meaning of life, it is a struggle between alternative viewpoints of life itself. And without the ability to defend one's own viewpoint against other, perhaps more aggresive ideologies, then reasonableness and moderation could quite simply disappear. That is why we'll always need an Army, and may God strike me down were it to be otherwise.

Sergeant-Major:
Don't stand there gawping! Like you've never seen the hand o' God before!

Wife of Guest #4:
We have to go - um - I'm having rather heavy period.

Guest #4:
And... we... have a train to catch.

Wife:
Yes... of course. We have a train to catch. And I don't want to start bleeding over the seats.

Humphrey:
And spotteth twice they the camels before the third hour. And so the Midianites went forth to Ram Gilead in Kadesh Bilgemath by Shor Ethra Regalion, to the house of Gash-Bil-Betheul-Bazda, he who brought the butter dish to Balshazar and the tent peg to the house of Rashomon, and there slew they the goats, yea, and placed they the bits in little pots. Here endeth the lesson.

Humphrey:
Oh, no, do share your little joke with the rest of the class.

Grim Reaper:
You are all dead. I am Death.

Host:
Well, that's cast rather a gloom over the evening, hasn't it?

Obstretrician:
I think it's a bit early to start imposing roles on it, don't you?

Humphrey:
Now two boys have been found rubbing linseed oil into the school cormorant. Now some of you may feel that the cormorant does not play an important part in the life of the school, but I would remind you that it was presented to us by the corporation of the Town of Sudbury to commemorate Empire Day, when we try to remember the names of all those from the Sudbury area who so gallantly gave their lives to keep China British. So from now on, the cormorant is strictly OUT OF BOUNDS. Oh and Jenkins? Apparently your mother died this morning. Chaplain?

Ainsworth:
During the night, old Perkins got his leg bitten sort of... off.

Dr. Livingstone:
Ah, been in the wars, have we?

Perkins:
Yes.

Dr. Livingstone:
Ah, any headache? Bowels all right? Hm. Well, let's have a look at this "one leg" of yours, then, eh? Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes...

Dr. Livingstone:
Yes yes. Yes, well, this is nothing to worry about.

Perkins:
Oh, good.

Dr. Livingstone:
Yes, there's a lot of it around, probably a virus. Keep warm, plenty of rest, and if you're playing football or anything, try and favor the other leg.

Maitre d':
Et maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif, or would he prefer to order straightaway? Today, we have for appetizers - excuse me - uh, moules marinières, pâte de foie gras, beluga caviar, eggs Benedictine, tarte de poireaux - that's leek tart - frogs legs amandine or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd - C'est à dire, little quails' eggs on a bed of pureed mushrooms. It's very delicate, very succulent.

Mr. Creosote:
I'll have the lot.

Ainsworth:
I'm afraid we've got a bit of a problem... you see one of our officers has

Ainsworth:
Lost a leg. We think it's a tiger...

Pakenham:
Sh, sh sh...