D: That's only because you bathe in coca-cola ya freak.
C: I resent that remark.
J: You resemble that remark.
D: What about the spank bank?
J: The what?
C: Spank bank, you know. A depository of spanked leftovers.
J: You mean a sperm bank.
D: Exactly what I said. Spank bank. How much do you think they'll pay for virile young bucks like ourselves?
C: I'm not entirely sure, but I think we gave up the opportunity to call ourselves "bucks" right about the time we watched the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy, director's cut, in one day.
J: Also I believe the word virile hasn't been applicable since our last real meal.
C: The man's got a point, I mean we've pretty much be-cheeto'ed our sperm retarded. I honestly don't think my soldiers have had the capacity to storm the beaches of Normandy in over a year, none the less win the war.
D: I'm both intrigued that you would link sex directly to world war II and at the same time disgusted that I would ever call you a virile anything.
J: Well we can at least try. I mean, there's gotta be a slush fund for discount sperm or something.
D: Never, ever, EVER say that sentence again around me or I may be forced to kill you.
(Leaves, arrives at SB)
Receptionist: Hullo, if you gentlemen would just sign the paper work we'll get right to... you...
C: So I sign this stuff here?
Recep: You sign nothing. You also leave- now.
C: (Muttering) no appreciation for a well maintained coke patina.
D: We'll take these then, thanks. (Ushering J towards seats)
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