[The crew are talking about how to go back to the bridge through closed doors.]
I've got it. We laser our way through.
An excellent plan, with just two drawbacks: One, we don't have a power source for lasers; and Two, we don't have any lasers.
“White Hole”
In this episode: Kryten (9), Dave Lister (8), Arnold Rimmer (6), The Cat (5), Talkie Toaster (3), Holly (1)
Come on, man, you gotta sacrifice your life. I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't do.
You? You'd sacrifice your life for the good of the crew?
No! I'd sacrifice your life for the good of the crew.
Computer Senility. It's such a weird condition.
I know. I had a mechanoid friend once who suffered from the same affliction. His name was Gilbert, but he preferred it if people called him "Rameses Niblick the Third, Kerplunk Kerplunk, Whoops, Where's My Thribble?". A sad case.
Well, if you ask me the eskimos had the right idea. They kmew how to handle the elderly and the permanently baffled: middle of the night, they'd take the out into the blizzard, remove their pyjamas, and just leave them to it.
That's how eskimos cared for their old people
Absolutely. That's why there's no eskimo word for 'Eastbourne'.
Great(!) Where does this leave us?!
It leaves us floating aimlessly in space with no navigation and a rapidly diminishing emergency power supply. It leaves us galloping up diarrhea drive without a saddle.
You are the most obnoxious, trumped-up, farty little smeghead it has ever been my misfortune to encounter!
If you don't eat, like, 400 rounds of toast every hour, he throws a major wobbler. That's what caused the accident in the first place.
What accident?
The accident involving me, the Toaster, the waste disposal and a 14-pound lump hammer!
That explains why he was down in the garbage hold in three thousand separate pieces.
Look, I don't want any toast, and he (pointing to Kryten) doesn't want any toast. In fact, no-one around 'ere wants any toast! Not now - not ever. No toast!
How 'bout a muffin?
Or muffins, we don't like muffins round 'ere! We want no muffins, no toast, no tea cakes, no buns, baps, baguettes or bagels, no croissants, no crumpets, no pancakes, no potato cakes and no hot cross buns! And definitely no smegging flapjacks!
(after a very brief pause): Ah, so you're a waffle man!
You see?
NO TOAST!
But I am a toaster. It is my raison d'etre. I toast, therefore I am. If you don't want any toast, why did you repair me, hm?
Yeah, why did you repair him?
He's a guinea pig for a technique called "Intelligence Compression." His AI chips were very badly damaged in the accident.
But that was no accident! That was first-degree toastercide!
Just shut your grill!
I have a third question. A sensible question. A question that will test the limits of your new IQ to its very limits and stretch the sinews of your knowledge to bursting point!
This is gonna be about waffles, isn't it?
Talkie Toaster (sounding hurt, as it's been caught out): Certainly not. And I resent the implication that I'm a one-dimensional bread-obsessed electrical appliance!
I apologise, Toaster, what's the question?
The question is this: given that God is infinite, and that the Universe is also infinite...would you like a toasted teacake?
[Realising she only has 3 minutes to live after having her IQ upgraded Holly decides to shut off all power, causing concern for the crew]]
Umm, can anyone hear anything?
No.
Exactly, no one can hear anything, and do you know why we can't hear anything?
(annoyed) Why?
(in a spooky voice) Because there are no sounds to hear!
Kryten, isn't it around this time that your head goes back to the lab for re-tuning?
But there are fifty-three doors between here and the Science Room!
They're only internal doors, they're only a light alloy. We could get through 'em if we had a battering ram. Something... I dunno... about six foot long, fairly sturdy, with a flat top.
[Everyone looks at Kryten]
53 doors?! You can't be serious!
[53 doors later]
You alright, man?
I'm fine, thank you, Susan.
Let me get this straight. Is she doing what I think she's doing?
Why? What do you think she's doing?
Playing pool with planets.
Is that possible?
Well, it's not going to work. It's completely insane. It's whacko. It's noodle-doodle.
I'm with you, buddy.
No, not the idea, the shot. There's not enough side.
"Side?"
Yeah, side-spin. It's a complete mis-cue.
What are you drivelling about, Lister? We're talking about a computer with an IQ in excess of twelve thousand.
Doesn't mean she can play pool. I can. Trust me. I know whereof I speak. Aigburth Arms on a Friday night, they used to call me Dave "Cinzano Bianco" Lister, 'cause once I was on the table, you couldn't get rid of me. This pool arm is as sound as a dollarpound, and I promise you that shot will not come off! She's topped it, that's what she's done, she's topped it! It's a felt-ripper! That planet is off the table and into somebody's pint of beer!
You're going to drink an entire six-pack of wicked-strength lager?
I'm not going to get plastered, Rimmer, just...just nicely drunk.
Define 'nicely drunk', is 'nicely drunk' horizontal or perpendicular?
Rimmer, I can handle it.
I'm not sure I can!
If you miss, we're going to get a planet in the face.
I'm not going to mish.
"Mish"?
What?
"Mish", 'I'm not going to mish' you said. You've only had 4 cans and you're steaming!
Rimmer, will you relax? I know what I'm doing, I am not pished!
[walks into something off camera with a loud clatter]
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