Ben. Now, to date, the diamond industry has always targeted men, sending the message that the woman needs the man to buy her the rock. All right, they say, “A diamond is forever. ” We say, “A diamond is for everyone.”

Phillip. I like that.

Ben. Yes.

Spears. We don’t. “A diamond is for everyone” sends the message that diamonds are everywhere, which means they’re not rare, and if they’re not rare, they lose their status. Status is the reason to buy them in the first place, which Benjamin would know if he understood women, which you don’t.

Phillip. You can’t feel bad about that, Ben. No man does.

Green. Selling a diamond to a woman is like making her fall in love. She has to feel giddy, desirous, adventurous, and desperate.

Spears. Take a look around this room, Phillip. Most of the women in this bar are looking for just that.

Ben. Exactly. The skills required to market diamonds are the same as those needed to make a woman fall in love, yes.

Spears. I’m not talking about lust. A woman in lust wants chocolate. A woman in love... wants diamonds.

Ben. Yeah, I’m not talking about lust, either, ladies. I’m talking about deep, meaningful, head over heels, his and her towels, let’s grow old together, L-O-V-E.

Yours, like Later!, had an off-the-cuff, unceremonious, here, catch quality that reminded me how twisted and secretive my desires were compared to the expansive spontaneity of everything about him. It would never have occurred to him that in placing the apricot in my palm he was giving me his ass to hold or that, in biting the fruit, I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated—and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock.

In fact, he knew more about apricots than we did—their grafts, etymology, origins, fortunes in and around the Mediterranean. At the breakfast table that morning, my father explained that the name for the fruit came from the Arabic, since the word—in Italian, albicocca, abricot in French, aprikose in German, like the words “algebra,” “alchemy,” and “alcohol”—was derived from an Arabic noun combined with the Arabic article al- before it. The origin of albicocca was al-birquq. My father, who couldn’t resist not leaving well enough alone and needed to top his entire performance with a little fillip of more recent vintage, added that what was truly amazing was that, in Israel and in many Arab countries nowadays, the fruit is referred to by a totally different name: mishmish.

My mother was nonplussed. We all, including my two cousins who were visiting that week, had an impulse to clap.

On the matter of etymologies, however, Oliver begged to differ. “Ah?!” was my father’s startled response.

“The word is actually not an Arabic word,” he said.

“How so?”

My father was clearly mimicking Socratic irony, which would start with an innocent “You don’t say,” only then to lead his interlocutor onto turbulent shoals.

“It’s a long story, so bear with me, Pro.” Suddenly Oliver had become serious. “Many Latin words are derived from the Greek. In the case of ‘apricot,’ however, it’s the other way around; the Greek takes over from Latin. The Latin word was praecoquum, from pre-coquere, pre-cook, to ripen early, as in ‘precocious,’ meaning premature.

“The Byzantines borrowed praecox, and it became prekokkia or berikokki, which is finally how the Arabs must have inherited it as al-birquq.”

My mother, unable to resist his charm, reached out to him and tousled his hair and said, “Che muvi star!”

“He is right, there is no denying it,” said my father under his breath, as though mimicking the part of a cowered Galileo forced to mutter the truth to himself.

“Courtesy of Philology 101,” said Oliver.

All I kept thinking of was apricock precock, precock apricock.

FINNEAS — Medieval

It feels a little medieval if you ask me
Like I’m watchin’ a sequel I’ve already seen
I could tell you what happens to the new king
When he goes out of fashion

I want my money back now-ow
I’ve been in the wrong crowd-owd
I’d never say it out loud-oud
But I’ve hated every word that comes out of your mouth

What should we fight about this time?
What will you write about this time?
What does it matter if you’re not fine?
You should’ve kept that shit offline

It feels a little medieval if you ask me
Like I’m watchin’ a sequel I’ve already seen
I could tell you what happens to the new king
When he goes out of fashion

It feels a little medieval kissin’ the ring
In a gothic cathedral, have you ever seen
What really happens to people like me
When we go out of fashion?

They’re gonna tear you from your pedestal, it’s almost inevitable
I’m not bein’ cynical, it’s so unoriginal
If you get political, they’ll make you a criminal
It’s all a bit biblical

Don’t put your camera down
You don’t go to Heaven in a crown
It’s not worth the money bringin’ me back from the dead

I never said it would be any fun
You never should’ve trusted anyone
They’ll love you ’til they know you’re done
And then it’s off with his head

Marilyn So if a right-handed person is gonna chop off one of his hands, he’s gonna chop off his left hand, right? Cos he’s gonna haveta use his right hand to hold the, y’know...

Marilyn Meat cleaver, or the knife, or whatever...

Mervyn Meat cleaver.

Marilyn Yeah, or the knife or whatever!

Mervyn I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there, Marilyn! [...]

Carmichael (To Mervyn.) What exactly are you trying to say, man?

Mervyn Haah?

Carmichael What exactly are you trying to say?

Mervyn About what?

Carmichael takes out his gun. [...]

Carmichael Are you trying to say I chopped off my own hand?

Toby No way is he trying to say that.

Marilyn He is totally not trying to say that.

Toby No way is he trying to say that in a room where if that gun goes off the entire room is gonna explode, no way is he trying to say that, are you, Mervyn?

Mervyn I’m... Not trying to say anything.

Toby Brilliant! See? He’s not trying to say anything!

British Columbia Penitentiary — 1958.

Voiceover Alright, dirtbags. Lights out!

The auditorium is plunged into darkness.

Lights up on Mitch and Raul sitting in their prison cell Mitch is lifting a dumbbell. Cooper (a guard) enters.

Cooper Inspection! On your feet, prisoners!

Warden enters.

Warden Thank you, Neil.

Cooper While Warden Johnson is present you do not move off that spot. Do you understand?

Mitch and Raul Yes, Officer Cooper.

Warden So you’re the troublemaker I been hearing about? Name?

Cooper Mitchell Ruscitti, sir.

Warden Age?

Cooper Twenty-seven.

Warden Height?

Cooper Six-one.

Warden Weight?

Silence.

Warden Weight!

Cooper I am waiting, sir.

Warden No! Give me his weight!

Cooper Oh, a hundred and eighty pounds, sir.

Warden What’s his behavior like?

Cooper Well he’s pretty unemotional, sir. He acts coldly towards the guards.

Warden I see.

Cooper Icy, sir, exactly. But he’s a good labourer, once he dug out three water holes in one day.

Warden Well, well, well.

Cooper Exactly, sir.

Warden So, are you enjoying your time here at British Columbia Penitentiary?

Mitch I’m having a ball.

Warden Tell me about his sentence.

Cooper It was kinda sarcastic, sir.

Warden No, no, how long is the man’s sentence?

Cooper It was four words, sir.

Warden No! How long is his jail term?

Cooper Ten years sir.

Warden And what’s he served?

Cooper Porridge in the morning. Meat stew at night, sir.

Warden No! How long has he been with us?

Cooper (checks watch) A minute and a half, sir.

Warden At the prison.

Cooper Two years, sir.

Warden What’s your background?

Mitch A grey wall and a chair.

Warden I don’t wanna see any lip.

Cooper Yes, sir.

He holds his clipboard over Mitch’s mouth.

Warden No! Why did he end up here?

Cooper He was arrested after an armed robbery when his getaway driver didn’t show. But there have been other charges brought against him over the years.

Warden With conviction?

Cooper (spoken with conviction) There have been other charges brought against him over the years.

Warden Neil!

Cooper Yes, sir.

He kneels.

Warden No, no, get up. What charges were brought against him?

Cooper Oh! Well, let’s see here. Assault. Robbery.

Warden Who steals salt? What a piece of garbage, thrash him, can’t let him forget who’s boss.

Cooper Yes, sir.

He hits Mitch to the floor and beats him with his truncheon. Warden exits.

“My name is Peter Stillman. Perhaps you have heard of me, but more than likely not. No matter. That is not my real name. My real name I cannot remember. Excuse me. Not that it makes a difference. That is to say, anymore.

“This is what is called speaking. I believe that is the term. When words come out, fly into the air, live for a moment, and die. Strange, is it not? I myself have no opinion. No and no again. But still, there are words you will need to have. There are many of them. Many millions, I think. Perhaps only three or four. Excuse me. But I am doing well today. So much better than usual. If I can give you the words you need to have, it will be a great victory. Thank you. Thank you a million times over.

“Long ago there was mother and father. I remember none of that. They say: mother died. Who they are I cannot say. Excuse me. But that is what they say.

“No mother, then. Ha ha. Such is my laughter now, my belly burst of mumbo jumbo. Ha ha ha. Big father said: it makes no difference. To me. That is to say, to him. Big father of the big muscles and the boom, boom, boom. No questions now, please.

“I say what they say because I know nothing. I am only poor Peter Stillman, the boy who can’t remember. Boo hoo. Willy nilly. Nincompoop. Excuse me. They say, they say. But what does poor little Peter say? Nothing, nothing. Anymore.

For ten whole years the silly Queen
Repeated this absurd routine.
Then suddenly, one awful day,
She heard the Magic Mirror say,
’From now on, Queen, you’re Number Two.
’Snow-White is prettier than you!’
The Queen went absolutely wild.
She yelled, ’I’m going to scrag that child!
I’ll cook her flaming goose! I’ll skin ’er!
’I’ll have her rotten guts for dinner!’
She called the Huntsman to her study.
She shouted at him, ’Listen, buddy!
’You drag that filthy girl outside,
’And see you take her for a ride!
’Thereafter slit her ribs apart
’And bring me back her bleeding heart!’

Лет десять млела Королева
от однотонного напева,
пока в один ужасный час
не раздалось: «Белее вас
мисс Белоснежка — и она
на первом месте быть должна!»
Тут королева в крик и в брань:
«Повесить маленькую дрянь!
В печи изжарить! Как я зла!
Я яд крысиный припасла
к обеду... Нет: мой Егерь, где вы?
Найдите пакостную деву,
спросите: “Дева, вам охота
со мной поехать на охоту?”
Скачите в лес с ней на коне.
Зарежьте деву. Сердце — мне».

Bertram What a delightful village!

Bertram Eww. Mind your step, Gevin.

Bertram Ah, Gevin! Look at this ruddy-cheeked young country gent!

Boy What’s wrong with your nose?

Bertram What’s your name, young sir?

Boy Little Wacksmith, the Blackswith’s son.

Kicks a mound of muck.

Bertram What is that you are doing?

Boy Playing kicky muck.

Kicks the mound of muck again and again.

Boy Kicky muck. Kicky muck.

Bertram Much fun, is it?

Boy Not really. But sometimes I pretend I’m kicking sausages instead.

Bertram The poor boy needs something else to absorb his mind. There’s not much for a young whippersnapper to play with around here.

Boy kicks the mound of muck again.

‘Oh, isn’t it lovely!’ cried William. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be a bird!’

‘Your wings are not getting tired, are they, dear?’ Mr Gregg asked Mrs Gregg.

‘Not at all,’ Mrs Gregg said. ‘I could go on for ever!’

‘Hey, look down there!’ said Philip. ‘Somebody is walking in our garden!’

They all looked down, and there below them, in their own garden, they saw four enormous wild ducks! The ducks were as big as men, and what is more, they had great long arms, like men, instead of wings.

The ducks were walking in a line to the door of the Greggs’ house, swinging their arms and holding their beaks high in the air.

‘Stop!’ called the tiny Mr Gregg, flying down low over their heads. ‘Go away! That’s my house!’

The ducks looked up and quacked. The first one put out a hand and opened the door of the house and went in. The others went in after him. The door shut.

Роальд Даль. Краткая история происхождения клипа «Go Bananas».

“I’m in charge now. You had your chance and now it’s my turn. And what I want is for everything to die.”

“But Mr Mushroom Cloud,” someone might say, “surely you don’t want me to die. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.”

“That’s very nice of you, I’m sure,” the mushroom cloud would say, “but I’m still going to kill you.”

“But Mr Mushroom Cloud,” someone else might say, “I was about to go on holiday. Can’t you wait until I get back before you kill me?”

“No, I can’t,” the mushroom cloud would say.

“But Mr Mushroom Cloud,” someone else might say, “I was about to tell my friend that I love her.”

“Well, you should have done it earlier, shouldn’t you?” the mushroom cloud would say.

“But Mr Mushroom Cloud,” someone else might say, “I’ve only just been born.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” the mushroom cloud would say.

“But Mr Mushroom Cloud, surely you’re not going to kill me?” a little toadstool growing in a field might say. “We’re like family.”

“Nice try, little toadstool,” the mushroom cloud would say, “but just because you’re the same shape as me doesn’t mean that you’re going to get special treatment.”

Toadstool is a spore-bearing fruiting body of a fungus, typically in the form of a rounded cap on a stalk, especially one that is believed to be inedible or poisonous. Just like a toad. On a stool.