Ice. Ice for all, twas said. Ice. Ice bist nice; like german bisto, but colder. HAMLET: I am dying, Horatio. I'd hoped the ending would be funnier than this. HORATIO: You want me to tell some jokes? HAMLET: Lolwut? HORATIO: What doth happened upon whence thee tried thine self's hardest to earn an English Literature GCSE? HAMLET: Y'know, our grammar really is terrible. I don't understand why as of yet we have not locked ourselves in a cupboard and thriced ourselves until whence 'tis our good mother is coming upon which we drink soap and run away. HAMLET: Yes.