Acid Rock.

Must be talking about Rock.

Rock, next Sunday on Fox.

I'm as tired as a moon rock at an astronaut convention.

This is like an episode of The Twilight Zone and Mama's Family all rolled into one.

And if an audience member throws a pomegranate, hits Rock in the head, causing him to lose feeling in the left side of his face, and he's rushed to the hospital, but has to wait for emergency surgery because he didn't have the right form, and it turns out the receiving nurse is his ex-high school sweetheart who broke his heart by running off with a guy named Stu from Fort Wayne, Indiana, you'll see it.

Of course it is, don't you remember?

Even if it is, shouldn't we take a break?

We've been dancing like this for three hours straight.

That's right, and we never dance for anything less than seven hours.

I don't care what you two do, but I refuse to dance anymore.

Geez, you know, that's so unlike you, considering you're known far and wide to be a sweet-natured, loving, sweet, lovely, Mother Teresa-esque, yet sexually liberated, agreeable person.

Really?

Yeah.

Okay.

Congratulations to us all.

You've worn out another copy of Alley Cat.

Oh, I guess we have to take a break now.

Au contraire, my friend.

Don't you remember?