The Meaning of Life quotes

View Quote Cat: I wonder where that fish has gone?
Points to Drag Queen Drag Queen: You did love it so, you looked after it like a son.
Cat: And it went wherever I did go.
The cat's arms turn and tie in odd shapes as he talks Drag Queen: Is it in the cub-ord?
Audience, which, just happen to be all fishes, shout, "Yes, yes, check there!" and similar lines. Drag Queen: Wouldn't you like to know? It was a lovely little fish.
Cat: And it went, where ever, I, did go.
Audience: Its behind the sofa!
Drag Queen: Where can that fish be?
A green elephant headed- butler comes into the room, sticks his trunk to the camera and walks over to the right of the screen. The audience of fish shout, "Have you thought of the drawer in the front room?" Drag Queen: It is a most elusive fish!
The cat starts turning the taps that are attached to the Drag Queen's costume, where the nipples are, as he says his next line. Cat: And it went, where ever, I, did go.
Drag Queen: Oh fishie, fishie, fishie, fish!
Cat: A fish, a fish, a fish, a fishie, oh!
Drag Queen: Oh fishie, fishie, fishie, fish!
The cat holds a ball that is attached to a line of string, that leads to the Drag Queen's crotch, as he says his next line. Cat: And it went, where ever, I, did go.
One of the fishes from the audience shouts, "Have you checked in his trousers?" Referring to the elephant-headed butler, and another fish shouts out, "Yeah, check up his trunk!" END OF SCENE

View Quote Fish 1: Morning
Fish 2: Morning
Fish 3: Morning
Fish 4: Morning
Fish 3: Morning
Fish 1: Morning
Fish 2: Morning
Fish 4: What's New?
Fish 1: Not Much.
Fishes 5 and 6: Morning
Others: Morning
Fish 1: Frank was just asking what's new.
Fish 5: Was He?
Fish 1: Yeah. Uh huh.
Fish 3: Hey look, Howard's being eaten.
Fish 2: Is He?
[They move forward to watch a waiter serving a large grilled fish to a large man.] Fish 2: Makes you think doesn't it?
Fish 4: I mean... what's it all about?
Fish 5: Beats me.

View Quote Lady Presenter: Well, that's the end of the film. Now, here's the meaning of life.
[She is handed a gold-wrapped booklet.]
Lady Presenter: Thank you, Brigitte.
[She clears her throat, then unwraps and examines the gilt booklet.]
Lady Presenter: Well, it's nothing very special. Uh, try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations. And, finally, here are some completely gratuitous pictures of penises to annoy the censors and to hopefully spark some sort of controversy, which, it seems, the only way, these days, to get the jaded, video-sated public off their ****ing arses and back in the sodding cinema. Family entertainment, bollocks! What they want is filth! People doing things to each other with chainsaws during Tupperware parties. Babysitters being stabbed with knitting needles by gay presidential candidates. Vigilante groups strangling chickens, armed bands of theatre critics exterminating mutant goats... Where's the fun in pictures? Oh, well, there we are. Here's the theme music. Goodnight.

View Quote Mrs. Hendy: Do all philosophers have an S in them?
Mr. Hendy: Yeah I think most of them do.
Mrs. Hendy: Oh... Does that mean Selina Jones is a philosopher?
Mr. Hendy: Yeah... Right, she could be... she sings about the Meaning of Life.
Mrs. Hendy: Yeah, that's right, but I don't think she writes her own material.
Mr. Hendy: No. Maybe Schopenhauer writes her material?
Mrs. Hendy: No... Burt Bacharach writes it.
Mr. Hendy: There's no 'S' in Burt Bacharach...
Mrs. Hendy: ...Or in Hal David...
Mr. Hendy: Who's Hal David?
Mrs. Hendy: He writes the lyrics, Burt just writes the tunes... only now he's married to Carole Bayer Sager...
Mr. Hendy: Oh... Waiter... this conversation isn't very good.
Waiter: Oh, I'm sorry, sir... We *do* have one today that's not on the menu. It's a sort of... er... speciality of the house: Live Organ Transplants.
Mrs. Hendy: Live Organ Transplants? (to the waiter) What's that?

View Quote Nurse: Mrs Moore's contractions are more frequent, Doctor.
Obstetrician: Good. Take her into the Foetus Frightening Room.
Obstetrician: That's the machine that goes "PING!".
[The machine pings.]
Obstetrician: You see? That means your baby is still alive!
Obstetrician: Show the baby to the mother. [shakes the infant roughly at the mother] That's enough.
[After the doctors quickly drop the baby into an incubator, the mother looks up.]
Mother: A boy or a girl?
Obstetrician: Now, I think it's a little early to start imposing roles on it, don't you?
Administrator: Very impressive. What are you doing this morning?
First Doctor: It's a birth.
Administrator: And what sort of thing is that?
Second Doctor: Well, that's when we take a new baby out of a lady's tummy.
Administrator: Wonderful what we can do nowadays.

View Quote Singer (an imitation of Noël Coward): Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Here's a little number I tossed off recently in the Carribean:
Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?
Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong?
It's swell to have a stiffy
It's divine to own a dick
From the tiniest little tadger
To the world's biggest prick
So, three cheers for your willy or John Thomas
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake
Your piece of pork
Your wife's best friend
Your Percy, or your ****
You can wrap it up in ribbons
You can slip it in your sock
But don't take it out in public
Or they will stick you in the dock
And you won't a-come a-back
Oh, thank you very much!
[A fine restaurant serves a grossly obese man, Mr Creosote, who frequently engages in projectile vomiting.]
Fish 1: Oh Shit! It's Mr Creosote!
Maître-D': Ah, good afternoon, Sir, and how are we today?
Mr Creosote: Better.
Maître-D': Better?
Mr Creosote: Better get a bucket; 'm going to throw up.
. . .
Maître-D': Et maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif, or would he prefer to order straight away?
[The maître-d' places the menu on Mr Creosote's stomach, who promptly vomits on it.]
Maître-D': Uh, today we 'ave for appetizers -- excuse me.
[The maître-d' clears his throat and shakes off the vomit from his arm.]
Maître-D': Uh, moules marinières, pât? de foie gras, Beluga caviar, eggs Benedictine, tart de poireau -- that's leek tart -- frogs' legs amandine, or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd -- c'est-à -dire, little quails' eggs on a bed of pur?ed mushroom; it's very delicate, very subtle.
Mr Creosote: 'll have the lot.
Maître-D': [Pause] A wise choice, monsieur! And now, 'ow would you like it served? All, uh, mixed up togezher in a bucket?
Mr Creosote: Yeah... with the eggs on top.
. . .
Maître-D: Would monsieur care for a wafer thin mint?
Mr Creosote: Nah, **** off, 'm full.
. . .
Wife of Guest: We have to go -- um -- 'm having rather heavy period.
[awkward pause]
Guest: And... we... have a train to catch.
Wife: Yes... of course. We have a train to catch. And I don't want to start bleeding over the seats.

View Quote [After the fine restaurant has closed, the maître-d' chats with cleaning woman Maria. She has just finished cleaning up the debris after Mr. Creosote has exploded. She contemplates her life - in a 'spoken poem'.]
Maria:
I used to work in the Acad?mie Française, but it didn't do me any good at all.
And I once worked in the library in the Prado in Madrid, but it didn't teach me nothing, I recall.
And the Library of Congress you'd have thought would hold some key -
but it didn't, and neither did the Bodleian Library.
In the British Museum, I hoped to find some clue.
I worked there from nine till six, read every volume through -
but it didn't teach me nothing about life's mystery.
I just kept getting older, it got more difficult to see,
'till eventually me eyes went, and me arthritis got bad.
So now 'm... cleaning up in here. But I can't be really sad.
'Cause you see... I feel that life's a game. You sometimes win or lose.
And 'though I may be down right now, at least I don't work for Jews.
[The maître-d' chokes on his cigarette, dumps Mr Creosote's puke-filled bucket on Maria's head, and addresses the camera.]
Maître-d': 'm so sorry. I... I had no idea we had a-a racist working here. I-I-I apologise most sincerely. I mean, whoa--
[The camera slowly pans off the maître-d'.]
Maître-d': W-where're you going? No-- I can explain, uh... eh, quel dommage.
. . .
[The camera follows waiter Gaston out of the restaurant, through the streets, and all the way home.]
Gaston: You know... one day, my... my mother, she put me on her knee and she said to me, "Gaston, my son, the world is a beautiful place. You must go into it and... love everyone, try to make everyone happy, and bring peace and contentment everywhere you go." And so, I became a waiter!
[He smiles for a moment, then gradually looks glum.]
Gaston: Well, it's... it's not much of a philosophy, I know. But, well... **** you! I can live my own life in my own way if I want to. **** off! Don't come following me!

View Quote [As Arthur Jarrett is chased off a cliff by a crowd of nearly naked women in motorcycle helmets...]
Padre: Arthur Charles Herbert Runcie MacAdam Jarrett, you have been convicted by twelve good persons and true... of the crime of first-degree making of gratuitous, sexist jokes in a moving picture.
Distraught Male Voice: I just can't go on. I'm not good any more, goodbye... goodbye... aaaargh... Aaaargh.
[a leaf falls to the ground]
Distraught Female Voice: Oh my God. What'll I do? I can't live without him... I... aaaargh.
[Another leaf falls]
Distraught Children's Voices: Mummy... Mummy... Mummy... Daddy...?
[Two more leaves fall]'
More Distraught Voices: Oh no! Aaaargh!
[the rest of the leaves fall at once]
[Geoffrey is confronted by a hooded figure with a scythe.]
Geoffrey: Yes? [Pause.] Is it about the hedge?
[Death interrupts an elegant party.]
Grim Reaper: Silence! I... have... come... for... you.
Angela: You mean... to...?
Grim Reaper: Take you... away. That is my purpose. I... am... Death.
Geoffrey: Well, that's cast rather a gloom over the evening, hasn't it?
Howard Katzenberg: [I] don't see it that way, Geoff. Let me tell you what we're dealing with here. A potentially positive learning experience that can—
Grim Reaper: SHUT UP! Shut up, you American! You always talk, you Americans. You talk, and you talk, and say "let me tell you something" and "I just wanna say this". Well, you're dead now, so shut up!
Howard Katzenberg: Dead?
Grim Reaper: Dead!
Angela: All of us?
Grim Reaper: All... of... you.
Geoffrey: Now, look here! You barge in here, quite uninvited, break glasses, and then announce, quite casually, that we're all dead. Well, I would remind you that you are a guest in this house, and—
[With a bony finger, the Grim Repear pokes Geoffrey in the eye.]
Geoffrey: Ah! Oh.
Grim Reaper: Be quiet! Englishmen, you're all so ****ing pompous. None of you have got any balls at all.
Geoffrey: How did we all die at the same time?
[the grim reaper points at one of the platters on the table]
Grim Reaper:The Salmon mousse.
Geoffery:Dearest, you didn't use canned salmon, did you?

View Quote [Headmaster Humphrey Williams addresses the bored looking assembly]
Humphrey: “... And spotteth twice, they, the camels before the third hour. And so the Midianites went forth to Ram Gilead in Kadesh Bilgemath, by Shor Ethra Regalion, to the house of Gash-Bil-Bethuel-Bazda: he who brought the butter dish to Balshazar and the tent peg to the house of Rashomon. And there slew they the goats, yea, and placed they the bits in little pots." Here endeth the lesson.
Chaplain: Let us praise God.
[The congregation rises.]
Chaplain: O Lord...
Congregation: O Lord...
Chaplain: ... ooh, You are so big...
Congregation: ... ooh, You are so big...
Chaplain: ... so absolutely huge.
Congregation: ... so absolutely huge.
Chaplain: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Congregation: Gosh, we're all really impressed down here, I can tell You.
Chaplain: Forgive us, O Lord, for this, our dreadful toadying, and...
Congregation: ... and barefaced flattery.
Chaplain: But You're so strong and, well, just so... super.
Congregation: Fantastic!
Chaplain: Amen.
Congregation: Amen.
[The congregation sits again.]
Humphrey: Now, two boys have been found rubbing linseed oil into the school cormorant. Now, some of you may feel that the cormorant does not play an important part in the life of the school, but I would remind you that it was presented to us by the Corporation of the town of Sudbury to commemorate Empire Day, when we try to remember the names of all those from the Sudbury area who so gallantly gave their lives to keep China British. So, from now on, the cormorant is strictly out of bounds! Oh, and Jenkins, apparently your mother died this morning. Chaplain?
[The Chaplain leads the congregation in a hymn.]
Chaplain, Congregation: [singing] Oh, Lord, please don't burn us,
Don't grill or toast your flock.
Don't put us on the barbecue,
Or simmer us in stock.
Don't braise or bake or boil us,
Or stir-fry us in a wok.

Oh please don't lightly poach us,
Or baste us with hot fat,
Don't fricassee or roast us,
Or boil us in a vat,
And please don't stick thy servants Lord,
In a Rotissomat...

View Quote [Mr Brown answers the door of his home to find two men dressed in white labcoats.]
Labcoat #1: Hello. Uh... can we have your liver?
Mr Brown: What?
Labcoat #1: Your liver. It's a large, uh... glandular organ in your abdomen.
[Mr Brown just stares at the labcoated men.]
Labcoat #1: You know, it's, uh... it's reddish-brown; it's sort of, uh...
Mr Brown: Yeah, y-yeah, I know what it is, but... I'm using it! I...
[The labcoated men push into the house. The second man holds Mr Brown against the wall.]
Labcoat #2: Go on, sir! Don't muck us up, now!
[The first labcoated man searches him and pulls out a card.]
Labcoat #1: Hel-lo! What's this, then?
Mr Brown: A liver donor's card.
Labcoat #1: Need we say more?
Labcoat #2: No!
Mr Brown: Listen! I can't give it to you now. It says, 'in the event of death'. Uh. Oh! Ah. Ah. Eh.
Labcoat #1: No one who has ever had their liver taken out by us has survived.
Mr Brown: Agh.
Labcoat #2: Just lie there, sir. It won't take a minute.
[The Labcoats remove and break Mr Brown's liver.]
Mr. Brown: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Labcoat #1: Zip it up.
Man in Pink: [singing] So, remember when you're feeling very small and insecure,
How amazingly unlikely is your birth!
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space,
'Cause there's bugger-all down here on planet Earth.

[Large corporate boardroom filled with suited executives]
Exec #1: Which brings us once again to the urgent realization if how much there is still left to Own. Item six on the agenda: "The Meaning of Life" Now uh, Harry, you've had some thoughts on this.
Exec #2: Yeah, I've had a team working on this over the past few weeks, and what we've come up with can be reduced to two fundamental concepts. One: People aren't wearing enough hats. Two: Matter is energy. In the universe there are many energy fields which we cannot normally perceive. Some energies have a spiritual source which act upon a person's soul. However, this "soul" does not exist ab initio as orthodox Christianity teaches; it has to be brought into existence by a process of guided self-observation. However, this is rarely achieved owing to man's unique ability to be distracted from spiritual matters by everyday trivia.
Exec #3: What was that about hats again?
Exec #2: Oh, Uh... people aren't wearing enough.
Exec #1: Is this true?
Exec #4: Certainly. Hat sales have increased but not pari passu, as our research...
Exec #3: [Interrupting] "Not wearing enough"? Enough for what purpose?
Exec #5: Can I just ask, with reference to your second point, when you say souls don't develop because people become distracted... has anyone noticed that building there before?!
[all of the board members are worried]
Chairman: Good Lord!
[It's the return of The Crimson Permanent Assurance! A pirate goes out of it and crashes through the window.]
Chairman: Good Lord! The Crimson Permanent Assurance!
Offscreen Projectionist: We interrupt this film to apologise for this unwarranted attack by the supporting feature. Luckily, we have been prepared for this eventuality, and are now taking steps to remedy it. [another skyscraper falls down on the Crimson Permanent Assurance building] Thank you.

View Quote [The battleground scene pulls back to show itself as a film presented by a general.]
General: Well, of course, warfare isn't all fun. Right — stop that! It's all very well to laugh at the military, but when one considers the meaning of life, it is a struggle between alternative viewpoints of life itself. And without the ability to defend one's own viewpoint against other perhaps more aggressive ideologies, then reasonableness and moderation could, quite simply, disappear! That is why we'll always need an army, and may God strike me down were it to be otherwise.
[A lightning bolt destroys the general. Cut to outside, where the Hand of God rises into the clouds. A sergeant major stands before his troops.]
Sergeant Major: DON'T STAND THERE GAWPING! LIKE YOU'VE NEVER SEEN THE HAND O' GOD BEFORE!
Sergeant Major: RIGHT! TODAY WE ARE GOING TO GO MARCHING UP AND DOWN THE SQUARE! That is, unless any of you has got anything better to do? WELL?! Anyone got anything they'd rather be doing than marching up and down the square?
[Atkinson tentatively raises a hand]:
Sergeant Major: Yes? Atkinson? :[strides over and stares him contemptuously in the face]: What would you rather be doing, Atkinson?
Atkinson: Well, frankly, sir, rather be at home with the wife and kids.
Sergeant Major: WOULD YOU, NOW?!
Atkinson: Yes, sir.
Sergeant Major: Right! Off you go. Now, everybody else happy with my little plan of marching up and down the square a bit?
Soldier: Sarge?
Sergeant Major: Yes?
Soldier: I've got a book I'd quite like to read.
Sergeant Major: Right, you go read your book then. Now, everybody else quite content to join in with my little scheme of marching up and down the square?
Whickley: Sarge?
Sergeant Major: What is it, Whickley?
Whickley: Well, I'm, er...learning the piano.
Sergeant Major: LEARNING THE PIANO?!
Whickley: Yes, Sarge.
Sergeant Major: And I suppose you'd like to go practice, eh? [starts talking much faster] Marching up and down the square not good enough for you, eh?
Whickley: Yes, Sarge.
Sergeant Major: Right! Off you go. What about the rest of you? Rather be off to the pictures, I suppose. [the soldier murmur agreement] ALL RIGHT! Off you go. [they disperse; Sergeant Major turns to camera] Bloody Army, don't know what it's coming to! Right! Sergeant Major marching up and down the square! Left, right, left...
Ainsworth: Ah, morning, Perkins.
Perkins: Thank you, sir.
Ainsworth: What's all the trouble, then?
Perkins: Bitten, sir, during the night.
Ainsworth: [examining the wound] Hmm. Whole leg gone, eh?
Perkins: Yes.
Ainsworth: How's it feel?
Perkins: Stings a bit.
Ainsworth: Hmm. Well, it would, wouldn't it. That's, er...quite a bite you've got there.
Perkins: Yes, real beauty, isn't it?
Ainsworth: Any idea how it happened?
Perkins: None whatsoever, complete mystery to me. Woke up just now, one sock too many!
Pakenham-Walsh: [staring through the massive hole in Perkins's mosquito netting] You must have a hell of a hole in your net...
Ainsworth: Well, we sent for the doctor.
Perkins: Oh, hardly worth it, is it?
Ainsworth: Oh, yes, better safe than sorry...
Pakenham-Walsh: [finally noticing the hole after having peered around it for several seconds] Yes, good Lord, look at this!
Ainsworth: By Jove! That's enormous!
Pakenham-Walsh: You don't think it'll come back, do you?
Ainsworth: For more, you mean. You're right, we'd better get this stitched.
[During the 1st Zulu War (1879) in Glasgow Natal]
Ainsworth: Hello, Doctor, during the night, Ol' Perkins here got his leg bitten sort of ... off.
Dr. Livingstone: Oh, really? Well, let's take a look at this one leg of yours. [prods with the tip of his pipe] Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes. Yes, well, this is nothing to worry about.
Perkins: Oh, good.
Dr. Livingstone: Eh, there's a lot of it about — probably a virus. Keep warm, plenty of rest, and if you're playing any football try and favor the other leg.
. . .
Perkins: So, it'll, uh... it'll just grow back again, will it?
Dr. Livingstone: Ah... I think I'd... better come clean with you about this. It's, um... it's... not a virus, I'm afraid. You see, a virus is what we doctors call "very, very small". So small, it could not possibly have made off with the whole leg. What we're looking here for is, I think — and this is no more than an educated guess, I'd like to make that clear — is some multicellular life form with stripes, huge, razor-sharp teeth about eleven feet long, and of the genus felis horribilis — what we doctors, in fact, call a tiger.
Ainsworth, Pakenham-Walsh, Perkins: [in unison] A tiger?
[Outside, the British troops and the Zulus cease fighting.]
British Troops, Zulus: A tiger?
[As the Zulus flee, the British troops collapse to the ground. Back in the medical tent...]
Pakenham-Walsh: A tiger, in Africa?
Ainsworth: Hmm?
Pakenham-Walsh: A tiger, in Africa?!
Ainsworth: Ah, well, it- it has... probably escaped from a zoo.
Pakenham-Walsh: Doesn't sound very likely to me.
Soldier: Here is better than home, eh, sir? I mean, at home if you kill someone they arrest you, here they'll give you a gun and show you what to do, sir. I mean, I killed fifteen of those buggers. Now, at home they'd hang me, here they'll give me a ****ing medal, sir.

View Quote [A northern street. Dad is marching home. We see his house. A stork flies above it, and drops a baby down the chimney.] Catholic Dad: Oh Bloody Hell!
[Inside the house. A pregnant woman is at the sink. With a cry a new-born baby, complete with umbilical cord, drops from between her legs onto the floor.] Mother: Get that would you, Deirdre...
Girl: All right, Mum.
[The girl takes the baby. Mum carries on.] Catholic Dad: The mill's closed! There's no more work. We're destitute.
[His several dozen children murmur in dismay.]
Catholic Dad: Come in, my little ones. I've got no option but to sell you all for scientific experiments.
Catholic Dad: [singing] Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is great.
If a sperm is wasted,
God gets quite irate.

Catholic Daughter: [singing] Let the heathens spill theirs,
On the dusty ground.
God shall make them pay,
For each sperm that can't be found.

[Mr Blackitt making fun of the Catholics across the street and lecturing his wife about Protestantism.]
Mr Blackitt: Look at them, bloody Catholics, filling the bloody world up with bloody people they can't afford to bloody feed.
Mrs Blackitt: What are we dear?
Mr Blackitt: Protestant, and fiercely proud of it.
Mrs Blackitt: Hmm. Well, why do they have so many children?
Mr Blackitt: Because... every time they have sexual intercourse, they have to have a baby!
Mrs Blackitt: But it's the same with us, Harry.
Mr Blackitt: What do you mean?
Mrs Blackitt: Well, we've got two children, and we've had sexual intercourse twice.
Mr Blackitt: That's not the point. We could have it any time we wanted!
Mrs Blackitt: Really?
Mr Blackitt: Oh yes, and what's more, because we don't believe in that Papist claptrap, we can take precautions.
Mrs Blackitt: What do you mean... lock the door?
Mr Blackitt: No, no. I mean, because we're members of the Protestant Reformed Church, which successfully challenged the autocratic power of the Papacy in the mid-sixteenth century, we can wear little rubber devices to prevent issue.
Mrs Blackitt: What d'you mean?
Mr Blackitt: I could, if I wanted, have sexual intercourse with you,...
Mrs Blackitt: Oh, yes, Harry.
Mr Blackitt: ...and, by wearing a rubber sheath over my old feller, I could insure... that, when I came off, you would not be impregnated.
Mrs Blackitt: Ooh!
Mr Blackitt: That's what being a Protestant's all about! That's why it's the church for me! That's why it's the church for anyone who respects the individual, and the individual's right to decide for him- or herself. When Martin Luther nailed his protest up to the church door in 1517, he may not have realised the full significance of what he was doing, but... 400 years later, thanks to him, my dear, I can wear whatever I want on my John Thomas.
[He sniffs.]
Mr Blackitt: And, Protestantism doesn't stop at the simple condom! Oh, no! I can wear French Ticklers if I want.
Mrs Blackitt: You what?
Mr Blackitt: French Ticklers! Black Mambos! Crocodile Ribs! Sheaths that are designed not only to protect, but also to enhance the stimulation of sexual congress.
Mrs Blackitt: Have you got one?
Mr Blackitt: Have I got one? Uh, well, no, but I can go down the road any time I want, and walk into Harry's and hold my head up high and say in a loud, steady voice, "Harry, I want you to sell me a condom. In fact, today, I think I'll have a French Tickler, for I am a Protestant."