KARL: There has been a mistake. Those breasts are not possible.
SALMA: Hi, Mr. … Karl… listen, I just have to… I PROMISE this was not my idea.
KARL: Promises are for liars, pet. JUICE THE TRUTH, you naughty orange.
SALMA: No, I’m serious, didn’t you hear? I lost a bet!
KARL: Never gamble with the produce section, darling. If I saw you on a parade float I’d say, “Lo! Bring me a melon-baller and some velvet shoes.” Do you juggle?
SALMA: I’m not kidding — they had this backstage. It’s not even mine. Please understand.
KARL: Comprehension is where intrigue ends and the yawning begins. MYSTIFY. Then kill the wardrobe servant.
SALMA: I can’t believe you had to be here the day this happened. You’re never going to take me seriously again, are you?
KARL: There are two kinds of people, you divine flesh balloon — those who snort majesty and those who buy cantaloupes. You know who you are. If I tug your braid, will there be milk?
SALMA: Everyone who booked me on this show will be fired. SO VERY FIRED.
KARL: Shhh, pet. Your heaving agony disturbs the egg basket. RELEASE. And then
pause while I contemplate making a meringue out of your bosom.