Iorek Byrnison: Doh-di-doh, walking in the snow ...
IB: Things have been so quiet around here since I butchered and ate all of my kind ... where's a refreshing beverage to wash things down when you need one?
`Snow crunches, crunches, crunches ...`
IB: What's that? Dost my snout deceive me? Could it really be ... a ... you know what?
IB: Good heavens, yes!
IB: I will forever be in the service of whatever delicious creature so nobly left this, oh -- it's ... just ... over ... that ... hill ...
IB: Grrrr ... `and leap!`
IB: Fuck yeah.
* This has been a Chushley production.