Bunny: Dear, do pass the Our Compliments' grated cheese product.
Clay: The wind is low, the birds will sing.
Bunny: (Addressing the studio audience) He's not listening.
Clay: That you are part of everything.
Bunny: Aparently, Clay, my regular passive aggression is a touch too bland tonight.
Clay: Did I ever tell you that when I was five, or so, I used to tell people that I wanted my eye colour to directly reflect whatever was in the sky at that particular moment.
Bunny: (Directs the studio audience to look towards the rafters) He's not listening. He's up there now. Look around, around, around (Points to the rafters).
Clay: Leave this warm, little warren with me, darling. It's perfect, yes. But it's also cold. And maybe a little doomed.
Bunny: (Points to Clay) You know, back when I first met him, I thought he'd have been more malleable than this.
Clay: Call me Fiver.
Bunny: No.
Clay: You know if I had those special eyes, right now they'd be the colour of two satellites. My irises would be mostly grey, with Russian flags stuck to their greyish sides.
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