"You're just mad because I wouldn't sleep with you last night."
"No soul," Ian says.
The jukebox offers Tin Pan Alley's solution to the whole thing:
OH BABY, OH MY BABY O
MY BABY IS MY BABY O
MY BABY IS MY BABY O
MY BABY LOVES ME O
SHE DOES, SHE DOES, SHE DOES O
"Our trouble is too much history," John says. "A period without history is a happy one and we've had too much history."
"No soul—too much history," Ian hiccups. "Not enough sex—everybody dies."