IveynEfrosimija

Raoul: If you think you're going to force my trophy wife into another creepy tryst with you, then you've got another thing coming, buddy. Erik: Your wife is an airhead and so I may manipulate her however I please. Also, you are drunk. Raoul: Yeah? Well, you're ugly. Erik: You're broke. Raoul: You're REALLY ugly. Erik: You have no testicles. Raoul: Every time I look at you, I throw up in my mouth a little . Erik: Yes, but YOU are broke. I on the other hand, am conveniently and mysteriously wealthy despite the fact that a masked criminal showcasing his madness in such a flamboyantly French way would, under any other circumstances, attra

Christine: Oh! I'm so lonely and despondent because my lone parental unit has died, rendering me yet another pitiable example of Victorian orphan-dom. I am going to sit here in my dressing room scantily clad in the flickering candlelight whilst my bosom heaves with my sobs of despair. Erik: Hush, young woman! Christine: *gasp* What was that? Who are you? Erik: It is I, a conveniently disembodied, ethereal voice coming from the general vicinity of your mirror. I noticed you are sitting in your dressing room scantily clad in the flickering candlelight whilst your bosom heaves with your sobs of despair. I wish to-- Christine: *gasp: Oh! It's

Subliminal messages abound in The Phantom of the Opera. Some are so entwined in such carefully constructed, phallic metaphors, that it may be difficult to sift through the passionate web of angst and decipher the lyrics' true meanings. So here, for your clarity, I have provided a translation of some of the musical's most elaborate lyrics. The original lyrics will be italicized, while the translations will not. It is my desire that your next viewing of Phantom should be an enlightened one, and my sincerest hope that these translations will clear up any confusion. "The Phantom of the Opera" In sleep he sang to me (I thought this guy was, lik

Never had I seen such destruction. I have played witness to the brutal torture carried out in the prisons back in Persia and have, indeed, experienced said torture myself, but never… It was as if his house had imploded upon itself. Chairs were scattered upon the floor, lethal-looking slivers of wood jutting out from the legs that had been snapped in half. His fine loveseats had been shredded, bits of stuffing seeping out sheepishly from between tattered burgundy upholstery. Beneath a graveyard of empty and broken wine bottles, the carpets were littered with ominous red stains. The same red liquid had dried to a brown upon the walls, an