Greetings America! I . . . am . . . Killface. Don't bother flicking your infernal remotes, I've taken over your airwaves. Now, I trust you're all comfy on your tacky sofas from Rooms-to-Go, lots of nibbles close at hand? Well, tuck in! And why not smoke between gobbles? Yes, go for the gusto America! Live like there's no tomorrow, because as far as you squallid lot are concerned, there very much isn't . . . . Behold! [camera switches views to a large contraption] The instrument of your doom! I call it: The Annihilatrix! And when it is completed, a million gigatons of thrust will propel the Earth, directly, into the Sun. So look upon my works ye mighty, and despair.....
[enraged] If you want to be Leno-y, we can have you come down here, and you can do high fives! We could put a wig with a gray streak in your face! We can have you read off cuecards! We'll put Kevin Eubanks over there on guitar! [calms down] I shouldn't have said that.
[Killface shoots Trent, sending his severed upper body across the room.]
There's your twenty billion, Brent! Drink it in! The fusion chamber alone cost nine billion. The thrusters another four! You think there's just heaps of money left over for - WHAT DID YOU CALL IT?
[to Killface] You fucking kidnap us, right, you drag us up here, ya shit on every strategy we come up with - and by the way, that web promotion was tiiiiiight, but the bottom line is, you don't have the fucking budget to run with the big dogs! Now, do you! (begins making barking noises).
[watching Taqu'il on TV], Can't watch tellie for five seconds without seeing that jibbering hooligan and here I am reduced to ... post cards, the dry hump of marketing strategies.
