Oh, Niles, son of Marty, I enjoy it well.
No, I would not like a pillow, thank you. Mead-hall floors provide no pillows and I do not require one now. Go now, and let me be. Niles is sure to soon weave another laugh-net. Yes, I did say “laugh-net,” boy, and move your elbow. Do you see how big my elbow is? You’re taking up the whole—I could crush you with my wind! I’ll take your whole arm if I—forgive me, steward. My apologies to the helmsman. No, there is no need for detainment. Another hardy drink, perhaps? No? Then go again, and let me be.
But seriously, boy, move your elbow. I can’t sit like this for another eight hours … But I’m so uncomfortable! Fine! Fine. May the rings of the Geats be never on your finger, and may a Scylding strike you down.
Actually, no, that’s worse than saying “fuck you.”
How old are you, anyway? No more than a yearling, I supp—oh! Niles! You are a balm to my ears and nectar to my eyes. Hahaha! “Ramrod”! Ha! Your brother, this Frasier, he sees the truth of it, and I see it as well now. You squander all your booty on these antiques, for it has been long since you’ve had a woman’s touch. Yes, you insufferable child! “Booty”! I said “booty.” Must you carp at every word I speak?
Niles … the Maris-beast, Niles … you must give the Maris-beast the ramrod. But look, Niles. Look at you. Fearful as the pursued hind. The mind of a man with the wisdom of the old kings, and the sharp, slender frame of a milkmaid. You deserve more than this “Maris,” you sweet bird. Sharp of body, and a wit to match!
Gay? Why, of course I am, man! Who should not be gay when Niles, son of Marty, prances across the stage? I enjoy it well, I say! Hush now. The song of the ending begins. Lift your voice with me, boy! “But I don’t know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs …”