Me? My singing is what’s going to do it? [ March is bent over a pile of books, a musty and extremely dank looking tome in his hands–an old Agatha Christie book–and doesn’t move so much as swerve his head towards the sound of the noise. ]

Not the fact that we’re all absolutely fucked in here, it’s gonna be my singing that’s gonna do civilization in as we know it?

[ He doesn’t sound particularly upset someone’s called him out, despite his defensive language: it’s nearly deadpan, March still doubled over. The guy probably has a right to be pissy. March is fully aware he has a natural way of irritating people, and while he's not in the business of apologizing he knocks it off. No harm no foul. Finally, he straightens completely. ]

Place should have some records or a radio, that's all I'm saying. Solve the problem immediately. Get some Earth Wind and Fire over here. Donna Summer. C'mon, man.