Conversation like television set on honeymoon... unnecessary.

There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me but I had it surgically removed.

Clouseau: Does yer dewg bite? Inn Keeper: No Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends down to pet a dachshund - it snarls and bites him) I thought you said yer dewg did not bite! Inn Keeper: Zat . . . iz not my dog!

Finally, in conclusion, let me say just this.

Is there anybody hiding there in the dark?

I writhe when I see myself on the screen. I'm such a dreadfully clumsy hulking image. I say to myself, "Why doesn't he get off? Why doesn't he get off?" I mean, I look like such an idiot. Some fat awkward thing dredged up from some third-rate drama company. I must stop thinking about it, otherwise I shan't be able to go on working.

To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat.