Whistler,' Manet Called. 'how's Your Mother?

This Roberto. He No Like The Light.

We Know There's Going To Be Nothing But Pain, But We Go Back Again And Again.

It's Christmas! Ah, Christmas, The Time When All Good People Go About Not Decapitating Each Other.

And I'll Have You Know That If You Hurt My Son Again, If He So Much As Sighs Sadly Over His Coffee, I Will Hire A Man, A Russian, Probably, To Hunt You Down And Rip All That Shiny Black Hair From Your Head, Then Break Your Skinny Arms And Legs, And Set You On Fire, And Then Put You Out With A Hammer. And Should There Be Children From Your Beastly Rutting, I Shall Have The Russian Man Cut Them To Tiny Pieces And Feed Them To Madame Jacob's Dog. Because, Although He May Be Only A Worthless, Simpleminded, Libertine Artist, Lucien Is My Favorite, And I Will Not Have Him Hurt. Do You Understand?

It's Very Difficult To Stay Angry When A Room Full Of Bald Guys In Orange Robes Start Giggling. Buddhism.