Milo: Bullshit! Otis: It's not bullshit. Milo: It's fucking bullshit. Otis: White's bleeding over Orange, cradles him in his arms, and says, ‘I love you, man.’ Milo: That's fucking bullshit, and even if it wasn't fucking bullshit, they'd be saying it like blokes say it to each other. Otis: Then Orange says back, ‘I love you, too, man.’ Milo: Yeah, they're saying, ‘I love you, man,’ not ‘I LOVE you, man.’ Otis: Why would he say that? I mean, why would he say, ‘I love you, too, man’ if he wasn't a pillow-biter? Milo: He's bleeding to death, for Christ's sake. You say shit like that when you're bleeding to death. Otis: He's been holding it in the whole time. He thinks he's gonna die. He has to let it out, otherwise his secret will be carried with him to the grave. Milo: Bull-fuckin-shit! Look, I love Danny here, but that doesn't mean I'm a fucking chocolate-dipper. I'm no fucking chocolate-dipper, mate. Flip: What about that bit where they're point all those guns at each other? Milo: What about it? Flip: Well, maybe it's not really their guns they're pointing…
Danny: I knew this bloke once, right. And he used to masturbate so much that he grew very fond of his hand. So much so, that he began to talk to it and he put a little face on it and he called it Muriel. And after a while Muriel began to talk back to him. He would get her all doled up in make up and specially made little clothes and at night she'd go down and make intense mad passionate love to him. Anyway, one night about 3am, he wakes up in a cold sweat. And hears all this panting and moaning and groaning coming from the next door neighbour's apartment. And he looks down at his hand, there's nothing there. It’s gone. Its just this bloodied stump. So he staggers out into the hallway and he sees that the next door neighbour's doors is wide open. So he pops his head in and what does he see? On the bed, his hand, Muriel, all dressed up to the nines, make up on, going down on the next door neighbour. (everyone stares) Danny: It's a true story
Sam: There's all these words for a woman who doesn't want to have sex – ‘frigid’, ‘uptight’, ‘cold’, ‘icy.’ Can you like even think of one word for a man who doesn't want to have sex? Danny: Dead?
Danny: Getting some serious rays there, Flip? Flip: I’m moontanning, man. Full moon. You don’t get ‘em every day. No you don’t. Danny: Do you ever wonder if its all a big con, Flip? Flip: Eh? Danny: This. Everything. What if none of it really exists? What if it’s like some big experiment and we're like ants trapped in a giant petri dish? What if there is a greater intelligence out there and it’s creating everything purely as a way of stop us going insane on them? What if nothing really exists until we sense it? My room doesn't exist until I walk into it. Front yard doesn’t exist until I experience it. You don't exist. Flip: I don't… exist? Danny: Well, you could be just a projection of my inner psyche materialised, from my brain in order to keep me company. Flip: What about the cashmere sweater babes over the road, with their swishy little skirts and all? Would they be from your inner psyche or mine? Danny: Probably yours I reckon Flip.
Anya: Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year. In pagan times, it would be time for the king to be sacrificed, and for the queen to select a new man to be her king. Danny: Seems a bit rough on the poor old kings, doesn’t it? Anya: It was a great honour. Their blood had to be poured into the ground to make the earth fertile again, and the harvest plentiful. Danny: Makes you sort of thankful for crop rotation, doesn’t it?
Milo: I’m telling you bud, if this deal comes together, it’s just going to be one long line of kneeling-down dick-sucking motherfuckers waiting for me to come along and give them a taste of the big fella here. Otis: How are you going to get the designs on, dude? I don’t see how you’re going to do that. Milo: Any fucking propeller head can do the designs, bud. Those lines and dots they’ve got can be changed into, like, ridges and bumps for added sensitivity. Fucking guy’s gonna think he’s fucking Tarzan. Otis: You got a name for it yet? Milo: We’re going to call him, ‘the Woomera.’ Think about it: ‘Go further and longer with the Woomera.’ (Break) Milo: It’s gonna be fucking huge, man. Guys are going to be beating down my fucking door to buy condoms with Aboriginal tribal paintings on them.
Anya (reading Danny’s palm): You are deeply aware of your own sense of melodrama. You lack faith in yourself, but expect faith in others. You project your insecurities onto everyone around you. You reject happiness as being shallow and superficial. You embrace postmodernism to avoid having an original thought. You criticise yourself because it places you above criticism. You desire what you hate, and you hate what you desire. And you always have to kill what you love the most. Danny: You can see all that? Anya: Nothing is new anymore. Everything is rehashed.
Danny (reading aloud): ‘John and Marjorie Lewis request the pleasure of the company of Daniel Kirkhope to celebrate the marriage of Jessica Kate and James Lindsay at the St Stephens Chapel.’ Sam: You know, there are nuances the tenth time around that slip by you at first. Danny: I broke bread with these people, Sammy. Me and Matt swapped cooking tips. Sam: They obviously don’t understand the religious significance of that act. Danny: I thought they understood me. I thought they sympathised with me. Sam: Bit selfish of them to side with their own flesh and blood, eh?
Danny: You want to get married? Sam: Can't. Got to go out later.
Danny: They look different, they talk different, they know things we can’t even begin to comprehend… If that’s not a sign of an alien, I don’t know what is. Satomi: He your boyfriend? Sam: Do I look like a masochist? Danny: They come down here, they get impregnated with our seed, then they bugger off back to Planet Beautiful where only women are allowed to live. I want to find that planet… I want to live there. Sam: Okay Tiger Girl, either we come up with the equivalent of Colombia’s national debt in the next 24 hours, or seriously consider some kind of ritualised mass suicide. (As neo-gothic pagans wander past in the background) Sam: What in God’s name is going on out there? Danny: Didn’t your sisters who run with the wolves tell you? (Ominous chanting from the backyard) Sam: Explanation? Danny: 'Winter solstice blue moonth.' Some poor bastard’s going to be sacrificed so that the earth may bear fruit. Sam: Seems a bit rough on the bloke. Danny: That’s what I said, but I obviously wasn’t taking into account 4,000 years of patriarchal tyranny. Sam: Who are they going to sacrifice? Milo (wearing a diaper, painted with Blair Witch symbols and drunk out of his skull): Hello you duds! Winter solstice blue moonth party!
Skinhead with Chainsaw: Guardians of the four watchtowers? Flip (without a blink): Straight through. Out the back. First on the right. Skinhead with Chainsaw: Cool.
Danny: Taylor, these ‘reinforcements’ of yours… they wouldn't be, by any chance, Nazis would they? Taylor: Well… I prefer to think of them as politically challenged.
House #48 – Melbourne, Australia
Iain: If this were an environmentally sound society, Daniel, your two-litre plastic orange juice bottle would be just the right height to fit your dry fettuccine into, wouldn’t it? Danny (singing): ‘All the leaves are… all the leaves are brown… And the sky is grey…’ Iain: But it’s not, though, is it? It’s an economically corrupt, non-renewable, rip-the-guts-out-of-the-ecosystem, toxic materialist society, isn’t it? Danny: ‘I’ve been for a walk on a winter’s day…’ Iain: So they end up making your two-litre juice bottle exactly two-and-a-half centimetres too fucking short to fit your dry fettuccine into, don’t they? Danny: ‘I’d be safe and warm, if I was in L.A…’ Iain (slams bottle down): On fucking purpose!
Taylor: I’ve been doing the figures, Danny boy. I’ve done all the dates, bought all the flowers, had all the candlelit dinners. Been to gallery openings, sat through the plays, expressed my feelings, came up with some new ones I never even knew I had. Said all the right things, told all the right lies, but still… still not one drop of affection down south. Iain: You do realise Lenin wasn’t actually his real name? It’s a completely made-up name. Like… Bono, or Prince. Taylor: You see this wallet? Iain: Apparently he rocked up to the depo one morning and said, ‘Call me Lenin.’ Taylor: $4,873 have passed through this wallet in the past 12 months. All of it in the sole pursuit of women. Iain: Pity he didn’t hang around. He could have called himself, ‘The political leader formerly known as Lenin.’ Taylor: So you know what I did? I got up, caught a cab to the red-light district, walked into a brothel, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and a very nice girl took me into her room and had sex with me just like that! I’m a convert, Danny boy. A true believer. Iain: Just goes to show what a postmodern sort of guy he was I suppose.
Sam: She’s terrified of commitment, Danny. Commitment involves feelings, feelings involve emotions and emotions are a fascist construct forced upon us over thousands of years by the patriarchal hierarchy. Danny: I’m beginning to hate that patriarchal hierarchy. Sam: I wasn’t allowed to moan because it sounded like a cliché. I wasn’t allowed to gasp because it sounded like a cliché. I wasn’t allowed to say, ‘I love you’ because it sounded like a cliché! How do you climax without it sounding like a cliché? Taylor (with a phone book): Do you reckon I should look at P for prostitute or E for escort?
Danny: Why is 3 o'clock in the morning always the hour of choice to put on Nick Cave, get depressed and kill yourself? What's wrong with the middle of the day when everyone's awake and ready to call an ambulance?
Melbourne Detective: You room’s very orderly, Danny. One of the best we’ve seen. Danny: How do you know my name? Melbourne Detective: I'll tell you how this game works, Daniel. We're the cops - we get to ask the questions. You're the suspect, you get to complain about your civil liberties, perhaps get shot, maybe even killed. And it has to stay like that Daniel, otherwise everything falls out of balance. When things fall out of balance, you know what happens then, don't you Daniel? Your spiritual values start to decline. You get your disintegration of your social structure, don't you? System collapses. Pestilence, flood, famine. It happened to the Romans, it happened to the Greeks, it happened to the ancient Mesopotamians. And we don't want it happening to us, now do we Daniel? Sam: What’s going on? Melbourne Detective: We’re the police, sweetheart. Your civil liberties are about to be violated.
Melbourne Detective: You lot on drugs? Danny: Only when we can get them.
House #49 – Sydney, Australia
Nina: Tuesdays and Thursdays, Danny puts out the rubbish. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Dirk cleans the bathroom and the kitchen. Saturdays and Wednesdays, new person – that’s you – vacuums the house, including all the bedrooms. Taylor cooks when he’s not on night shift, Uptight does it when he is. And everyone is banned from writing each other into their novels, plays, film scripts, websites and all future technologies. Sam: What about you? What do you do? Nina: I don’t have to put up with this, you know. I do have an audition in the morning. (parting shot) Don’t know what you see in her, she’s not very attractive. Danny: Welcome to Hell. Sam: At least it’s warm.
Nina: If work calls, I’ve had a car accident. If uni calls, I’m in Melbourne on a research trip. If mum calls, I’m gay and fucking my sister over at her place. And if Joey calls, I’m still using the computer so he can go and get fucked!
Sam: Why do you always have to wear black? Anya: I’m in mourning for my life. Sam: This is Sydney, they do things differently here. Nina: Nobody cares about my problems, do they?
Nina: Well, I hope you’re all extremely satisfied with yourselves. My boyfriend now thinks I’m gay, my mother thinks I’ve been in a car accident, my boss thinks I’m in Melbourne, and someone told my uni tutor to go and get fucked!
Danny: Dirk, this newly installed sophisticated gay radar of yours is picking up shit from the cosmos that just ain’t fucking there. I've got my own shit to worry about. I've lived in 49 shared households in what seems as many years. I've been ripped off, raided, threatened, burned out, shot at, cheated on, scabbed in every one of those years. My beds are foam slabs on the floor, my cupboards are stacks of stolen milk crates. I've lived with tent-dwelling bank clerks, albino moon tanners, nitrous suckers, psycho fucking drama queens, ACID EATERS, MUSHROOM FARMERS, FUCKING BROTHEL CRAWLERS, FRIDGE-PISSERS, HARDCORE SEPARATIST LESBIANS, AND AN OBSCURELY-TITLED JAPANESE GIRL! AND NOW THE BEST FRIEND I'VE EVER HAD IN THE FUCKING WORLD WON'T EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME! I'M IN A PSYCHO FUCKING NIGHTMARE FROM HELL, AND I'M FUCKING FED UP WITH IT! So I suggest, pal, that you tune in, and chill fucking out. (Dirk nods, terrified) Nina: Nobody asks about my problems, do they?
(Inspecting Flip’s corpse) Sydney Cop 1: Shitload of paperwork here, mate. Sydney Cop 2: Shitload. Sydney Cop 1: Must have happened right in the middle of the Top 100. Sydney Cop 2: Just like a junkie, eh? Sydney Cop 1: Yeah, well he’ll never know what hit number one now, will he, eh? Sydney Cop 2: (snorts) Typical bloody junkie. Sydney Cop 1: Did you know he was a junkie? Sydney Cop 2: Don’t touch anything until the lab boys arrive. Never know with these junkies. Sydney Cop 1: Mmm, you never know. Sydney Cop 2: And don’t eat the felafel.
