The Other Shepherds, a deleted scene from Life of Brian, and one that I think is a pity they couldn’t fit it in. Some classic lines here.



whirlpoolgalaxy:

Oh, I see. I hadn’t correctly divined your attitude towards your tenants. 
You see I mainly design slaughter houses. Yes, pity. Mind you, this is a real beauty. I mean, none of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows, inconveniencing the passers-by with this one.
I mean, my life has been building up to this.
Yes, and well done, but we did want a block of flats.
May I ask you to reconsider. I mean, you wouldn’t regret it. Think of the tourist trade.
No, no, it’s just that we wanted a block of flats, not an abattoir.
Yes, well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered philistine pig ignorance I’ve come to expect from you non-creative garbage.
You sit there on your loathsome, spotty behinds squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker’s cuss about the struggling artist.
You excrement!
You lousy hypocritical whining toadies with your lousy colour TV sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic handshakes!
You wouldn’t let me join, would you, you blackballing bastards.
Well I wouldn’t become a freemason now if you went down on your lousy, stinking, purulent knees and begged me.

whirlpoolgalaxy:

Oh, I see. I hadn’t correctly divined your attitude towards your tenants. 

You see I mainly design slaughter houses. Yes, pity. Mind you, this is a real beauty. I mean, none of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows, inconveniencing the passers-by with this one.

I mean, my life has been building up to this.

  • Yes, and well done, but we did want a block of flats.

May I ask you to reconsider. I mean, you wouldn’t regret it. Think of the tourist trade.

  • No, no, it’s just that we wanted a block of flats, not an abattoir.

Yes, well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered philistine pig ignorance I’ve come to expect from you non-creative garbage.

You sit there on your loathsome, spotty behinds squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker’s cuss about the struggling artist.

You excrement!

You lousy hypocritical whining toadies with your lousy colour TV sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic handshakes!

You wouldn’t let me join, would you, you blackballing bastards.

Well I wouldn’t become a freemason now if you went down on your lousy, stinking, purulent knees and begged me.