R: Your ridiculous posturing and vacuous political windbaggery are nothing short of disgusting. If you had any taste at all you would remove yourself entire from the company of sentients, go off into the hills somewhere, live in a cave, eschew all worldly possessions, and taint humanity with your presence never again.

W: You have lovely eyes.

R: They are crosséd from spleen, which I am taking this rare opportunity to vent.

W: What I truly admire about you is the way your mind opens and closes like a Venetian blind--sometimes only visible through a few thin slits, other times completely exposed. At such times I enjoy peering into the very workings of your consciousness. I see a lake, and the lake is choked with algae.

R: The better to drown you with.

W: I see an atmosphere, and the atmosphere is filled with smog.

R: The better to smother you with.

W: I see a magnificent, dying elm.

R: You are irrelevant, inconsistent, ingratiating, immaterial, inane, inflammable ...

W: Inside, that is behind the blinds, is thus a room, carpeted, twenty by fifteen, fully furnished, mahogany chest, four-poster bed, round table. When you wish to exhibit yourself, you open the blinds and lie on the bed, allowing any passing peeping Tom to view your sleeping form. When you wish to retreat you hide in the chest. The table ...

R: Yes? Please continue with your tenuous yet overblown metaphor, or rather, don't.

W: And then a maid servant comes in, frilly black lace outfit, legs up to there, hair down to here, tray of desserts--so, and sets it on the table, and a delicious chill runs up and down your medulla. What a room, you think to yourself, what a perfect room in which to house your consciousness.

R: You are a pustule on the pimpled posterior of Providence.

W: Don't mention it.