"What business is it of mine if a young man requires -- no, I will not play linguistic games with you. I will not engage in sophistry, sir -- requires the services of an abortion doctor? Last I checked it bore no cost in blood for the Bette Midlers of the world!"
"Perhaps -- no, YOU listen -- perhaps if placed in the correct context we will finally ford the raging cataract of your incomprehension: A farmer has a cow. It needs its hooves checked. Later he buys a horse, which also requires this service. Has the cow disappeared somehow?"
"Has it been banished to some bovine netherverse, some state of punitive non-being? No, and to state it has is absurd. Sir, were I to concern myself with the disappearance of women, I would look first to what is I assume the last fraying thread of your own domestic situation."
"Then of course we must turn our attention to this "doctor" Petersen, a lamentable figure, rather Hensonian. One imagines him shambling through The Dark Crystal or one of that era's other little cinematic oddities, croaking plaintively at passing gelflings."
"Presented as we are with the good doctor's declaration that he would sooner die than speak aloud the name of Mr. Elliot Page, a Hollywood actor, one is left with a dilemma: watch in silence as he expires, or throw one's rotten produce at the gangling clown."
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