They sit down and do what everyone Matrix Reloaded does: Talk. The French guy, who is evil, hits a height of ludicrous repetition in a urine stream of psychobabble that goes on and on and on. Gini and I, having endured as much as we could, could no longer help it; we began to laugh helplessly at this terrible dialogue. It started as a bubbling giggle, and then rapidly grew to stifled guffaws - which were terribly obvious in the theater because nobody else in the audience was making a sound. Heads began to turn. Two minutes later, when we realized that we just couldn't fucking stop laughing, Gini and I fled to the bathroom, tears streaming from our eyes.
We took separate pee breaks, trying to put a damper on our amusement. When we exited the bathroom, the guy who sold us our popcorn (who had warned us about the movie) asked us how it was, and we discussed where it was failing.
And here's the thing: When we got back to the theater five minutes later, the French guy was still talking.
Keroro: I've been meanin' to tell you young'uns a thing or two about life. Listen now the precious words of an honest military man.
Natsumi: What? You're going to lecture us?
Fuyuki: Aw jeez! We've just been made into an anime and we're already going to lose fans.
Keroro: Shut up! I shall only lecture you for about two of your Pokopenian pages!!
Keroro Gunsou — Encounter 69: For Today's Youth: A Dose of Cold, Harsh Reality
"And when ya think about it, isn't that exactly the point?!"
"..and driving, and shopping, and eating, and working.. Somewhere, somehow, they all got chewed up and spit back out. They don't taste like living anymore. Don't you see what's it's like in this deranged, Waring blender of a world? Every day is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt. Ah, you never forget your senior prom... You think I'm sick? Well, the only disease I've got is modern life, a shnug-busting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of letdowns, put-downs, trickledowns, shutouts, freezeouts, sellouts, numbnuts, nickenputz and nimrods! All making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue! Where even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like say if some nymphomaniac telephone operators with the muscle control of Romanian mat-slappers agree to a little strip air-hockey, it'll be over before it starts, cuz some foul, leaking, feta-reeking cab-jockey slams his Checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata-spanker from a Santeria cult in Jualculpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big that all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete! And even with all this, with all this! I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day! Knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic card key at those pearly gates, I won't be in the coffin anyway, because some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted good-and-plenty to that same Santeria cult! So does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails, while life dirty-dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder THAT I SEEM DERANGED!?
-Duckman, Room With A Belleview
Richard: [Starts walking out the door, then stops and turns around.]
Richard: How stupid of me to expect you people to be decent or humane. You think you’re heroes, playing a part in the criminal justice system: the crusaders against oppression. Well, you might have started out that way, but look at you now. The day to day stench of your clients has rubbed off. You’re every bit as vile and contaminated as the murderers and rapists you defend. You bring no dignity to law. You proffer disgrace. Where you might once have been noble, you’ve sunk into a sinkhole of disrepute where your only idealism is “Get the guy off,” even when it offends human nature; where it insults morality. You’re so lost in the inferno of crime and dishonor, you become sickening animals, repugnant to everything that’s good about this country, everything this country celebrates in the spirit of humanity. You are sick, awful, vehicles of hate. If there is a god, He will get you, you sleazy, cancerous, infected, malignant, grotesque snakes!
I have a secret to tell
From my electrical well
It's a simple message and I'm leaving out the whistles and bells
So the room must listen to me
My name is Blue Canary, one note, spelled L-I-T-E
—They Might Be Giants, "Birdhouse In Your Soul"
"Sheesh, don't rant 'till you run out of breath, dumbass. And twice? What are you, twelve?"
— Firo to Victor, Baccano!
Be sincere; be brief; be seated.
—Franklin D. Roosevelt