KARL: Kate. PET. My hash-slinging waitress at a space diner. Tonight's blue-plate special is sass. SEASON IT.
KATE BOSWORTH: Oh, Karl, you are a scream.
KARL: You are the divine intergalactic crisping sleeve on my Hot Pocket. TOAST.
KATE: Hahaha! Magical. You are a delight.
KARL: The man in the moon needs a lover. Be his concubine. ROMP. He'll leave some green cheese on the dresser. Now stand back for a moment so I may contemplate whether I want popcorn.
KATE: Oh, like Jiffy-Pop? Yes! I'm actually following along with you!
KARL: Well stop, because if I saw you in an anti-gravity machine, my belts would start howling and I would demand roast beef. LAUNCH.
KATE: ... Yes, okay, I can work with that. Yes!
KARL: Now leave me unless your skirt dispenses toothpaste.
KATE: Yes! Wait, no. Shoot, I blew that.
