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Once upon a time, in the land of Disney-France, there was a prince who couldn't love, or something equally as horrendous. An evil witch, who may or may not have been portrayed as evil, cursed the poor prince instead of helping him find a soulmate. There was a flower, see, and a furry outfit - complete with ears!
Don't correct me. I'm not interested in the actual plot of Beauty and the Beast. If I wanted to know the real story, I'd see if it's on Netflix streaming. No, my interest lies in the film's pottery.
I don't care about your interests. I'm the one telling the story. Now, sit back, close your eyes, and imagine Mrs Potts and her son Chip. No tea service is complete with only one cup, now. Even if you are a reclusive sexual deviant with talking candelabras.
I'd tell you you'll learn about furries when you're older, but I'd really rather believe you won't. Get your mind back on that tiny teacup, Chip. A sweet thing with a minor imperfection, wouldn't you say?
You'd say wrong. That's just what he wants you to think. Behind the delicately patterned china hides the heart of a cold-blooded murderer.
Cold-tea-d murder just doesn't sound the same. Besides, he had blood when he was human, which is when the murderous tendencies took hold. Now pay attention, because this is very important - you have a younger brother, don't you? Do you want to be brutally smashed to death, shattered on a cold concrete floor, just because you might have mouthed off to an evil witch and gotten your family turned into a tea service? You were having a bad day!
Okay, Billy was having a bad day.
No, Billy wasn't a very clever name for a teacup. That's because he was a boy, you idiot. He wasn't born a teacup. That would have been an awkward pregnancy.
Oh, laugh at the narrator all you want, little one. Isabelle isn't a very clever name for a teacup, either.
Don't correct me. I'm not interested in the actual plot of Beauty and the Beast. If I wanted to know the real story, I'd see if it's on Netflix streaming. No, my interest lies in the film's pottery.
I don't care about your interests. I'm the one telling the story. Now, sit back, close your eyes, and imagine Mrs Potts and her son Chip. No tea service is complete with only one cup, now. Even if you are a reclusive sexual deviant with talking candelabras.
I'd tell you you'll learn about furries when you're older, but I'd really rather believe you won't. Get your mind back on that tiny teacup, Chip. A sweet thing with a minor imperfection, wouldn't you say?
You'd say wrong. That's just what he wants you to think. Behind the delicately patterned china hides the heart of a cold-blooded murderer.
Cold-tea-d murder just doesn't sound the same. Besides, he had blood when he was human, which is when the murderous tendencies took hold. Now pay attention, because this is very important - you have a younger brother, don't you? Do you want to be brutally smashed to death, shattered on a cold concrete floor, just because you might have mouthed off to an evil witch and gotten your family turned into a tea service? You were having a bad day!
Okay, Billy was having a bad day.
No, Billy wasn't a very clever name for a teacup. That's because he was a boy, you idiot. He wasn't born a teacup. That would have been an awkward pregnancy.
Oh, laugh at the narrator all you want, little one. Isabelle isn't a very clever name for a teacup, either.
