I'm setting the auto-pilot, but this better not be a ruse. –A ruse? Brring-brring! Hello? Hi, it's the 1930s! Can we have our words and clothes and shitty airplanes back? –Let's go, kid. –Call you back, 1930s, and hey... watch out for that Adolph Hitler. He's a bad egg!
(telephone rings) Hello, the living room of renowned theatrical director Roger De Bris' elegant, upper-East-Side townhouse on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in June. Who may I say is calling? Listen you broken-down old queen, he was drunk, he was hot, you got lucky. Don't ever call here again!
(telephone rings) Reference. Merry Christmas, Miss Costello. Yeah, sure I can. You got a pencil? Would you please write it down and file it away some place? Every year you people ask for the same information. Dasher, Prancer, Dancer, and Vixen. Cupid, Comet, Dunder, and Blixem. You're welcome. (hangs up telephone) –They're running true to form. –Along about 4 o'clock they'll be calling up for a complete text of A Visit From St. Nick.