Little Fish, Strange Pond

- ( Knocking ) - Woman: Miss Sinclair?

Miss Sinclair, please open the door.

Miss Sinclair.

Hell of a day.

I said hell of a day.

Lovely, really.

Really lovely.

Is this the way it's gonna be?

If it is, I'd like to know.

Which way is that?

You know--

the way you don't listen to a word I say;

I spend half my day repeating what I said the other half.

Fuck it.

This isn't as fun as it used to be.

- Sweet Stephen? - Yeah.

There is nothing less masculine than a man who bitches.

Now if you want a sex change, I'll find you a doctor.

Now if you'd be so kind as just to repeat that last question,

I promise to make the most concerted of efforts

to hang on your every word.

I forgot what I was saying.

Think, my good man. What was it?

Ow! I don't remember. I for--

ah! Okay.

I want to know if...

You were gonna talk like that all fuckin' day?

Is that it?

Yeah.

Yes.

You're not from England, you know.

Aw, you see that?

Love is a many-splendored thing.

Yeah.

I bet they can't wait to get home, rip off those sweaty jogging shorts

and just fucking hit it.

- Hit it? - Hit it-- knock boots.

Knock boots?

Fucking.

You know? Fucking.

- Is that really what you saw? - That's what I saw.

Why? What'd you see?

I saw something nice--

a candle,

a bottle of red wine,

a single red Rose,

slinky lace nightgown,

Neil diamond.

Neil diamond?

You saw Neil...

Was he alone or was he jogging with James Taylor?

That's what I saw.

Well, I think they can't wait to get home

and flat-out monkey fuck.

So much for romance.

I think we're living proof that true romance is truly dead.

- If it ever lived. - If it ever lived.

Mr. Jack?

You ever been in love?

Well, I guess it would depend on what you mean by love.

Unless you're opening up a closed closet door,

I'm pretty sure I mean the love between a man and a woman.

I'm not a homosexual.

Yet.

Maybe in my next life.

There's many kinds of love.

Of course there's different kinds of love.

There's the love of life-- nice.

There's the love that could last one night or two and a half minutes.

Love for your parents-- very nice.

There's the love of food for the fat sort.

Love of drink for the drunk sort.

- Love of midgets. - Midgets?

Midgets need love too.

Unrequited love which can lead to obsessive love.

Tell me about it. One minute it's candy and roses and blowjobs

and the next minute it's 200 fucking phone calls a day

and fucking restraining orders.

There was a time when I loved so deeply,

so unequivocally,

it bordered on hate.

That's the love I had...

Once.

She was a fucking bitch.

Love can be nasty.

So can we.

Dennis! Dennis!

You give birth to them; You care for them;

you raise them in this topsy-turvy world.

And what do you get for your troubles?

Murdered in cold blood.

Today's guests are youngsters who are currently

serving time for murdering their parents.

Today's topic is "Kids that kill"

on a very real, very live

"Dennis rivers show."

What is it I can help you with, sir?

This one will be fine...

Bucky.

Mm-hmm, yeah. You see that sign?

No I.D., you gotta leave.

Yeah, that's a library card, Dr. Peters.

Got anything with a picture on it,

like a driver's license, or...?

Got a "Dooey." Took the bus here.

You know, I think maybe you should, you know...

Go online for this kind of thing.

I'm old school.

How many fuckin' times I gotta tell you to stop singing that fuckin' song?!

I love riding the bus.

I've lost my wallet.

Really, Stephen? You seem to be losing things all the time.

It's as if your mind's trying to rid your body of all its earthly possessions.

Maybe if you drove once in a while...

They don't have cars where I'm from.

- Huh? - Huh?

I want to take the subway.

- The subway? - Yeah.

In a city known for rampant earthquakes? Are you fucking mad?

Uh...

Don't you dig that? The-- the excitement, the sense of doom?

If I wanted those sort of things,

I'd go to the fucking fun fair and ride the fucking roller coaster.

Oh, it's the adrenaline, man. It's a rush.

Are you really trying to tell me

that when you fly, for instance, that there's a part of you

that wishes for a plane crash?

Nobody can control death.

At least not their own.

Exactly.

Woman: Miss Sinclair?

Miss Sinclair, please open the door.

You see, sweet Stephen, that's why I love you.

To each his own.

I still say you'd have to be fucking lunatic to ride the subway.

Bonkers! Are you bonkers, sir?

The man is fucking animal crackers.

$9.95.

And a jar of vaseline.

Big night planned, do ya?

I guess so.

The vaseline's on the house.

You ever notice there's three types of porn?

Strangely enough, I've never given it a thought.

You've got your old-school smut--

Marilyn chambers, Rhonda Jo petty, seka.

This was before breast implants and liposuction,

- so they really had to know how to fuck. - Thank you, bucky.

Stephen: Then you've got your next wave of porn, okay?

Ginger Lynn, Jenna Jameson-- femmes fatales.

Oh, I have yet to mention...

Ahh! Traci lords.

The plot lines got weaker but the titties got bigger.

Fascinating.

Which leads me to our third kind:

A montage-- no plot line at all.

What a wonderful dissertation.

But through it all, I've seen one common denominator.

- Cheesy music? - No, one consistent factor.

Is this your conclusion?

Ron Jeremy.

- Excuse me? - Ron fucking Jeremy,

the Cary Grant of penises.

A poet, that's what you are.

Why, thank you.

Of course now with the Internet, the girls are--

oy! Aren't you a little young to be in here?

I'm a midget.

Midgets! We were just talking about you people.

Stephen, heel.

Come here.

Ha, nice lad.