How strange that you, of all of us, would prove to be the most hopeful.

A powerful and influential demographic in my house is all atwitter about the reunion show. I am not in that demographic. I am in the demographic who delights in trying to find the perfect scene from a movie about another very good band’s resurrection in which to place the Fab Five. My favorite so far:

Posh: “Look at you in those candy-ass monkey suits. And I thought I had it bad in Joliet.”

Scary: “At least we got a change in clothes, sucker; you’re wearing the same shit you had on three years ago.”

Sporty: “(You) ain’t lying though. We had a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline.”

Ginger: “But we’ll never get that fab sound again, not without some more horns. We’ll never get Mr. Fabulous.”

Runner-up, and best envisioned delivered by David Beckham, in his Real Madrid jersey and brandishing a machine gun:

“You contemptible pig. I remained celebate for you. I stood at the back of a cathedral, waiting in celibacy for you, with 300 friends and relatives in attendance. My uncle hired the best Romanian caterer in the state. To obtain the seven limousines for the wedding party my father used up his last favours with Mad Pete Trollo. So for me, for my mother, my grandmother, my father, my uncle and for the common good, I must now kill you.”

Also receiving votes:

Pick any one of them to be glared at by Frank Oz:

“One Timex digital watch, broken. One unused prophylactic. One soiled.”

Pick any two:

“Hanson Burgers.”

“Yeah. Lots of space in this mall.”

“Disco dancing hair cuts.”

“Yeah.”

“Baby clothes.”

“This place has got everything.”

This last one is nearly my favorite; it works best if you can clearly picture Baby’s facial expression:

“Chicken wire?”

It’s slightly addictive. Try it.

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