The reason it's called the "f-you-ture" and not the "f-us-ture" is that everyone's is their own to make. That's really the main theme of the Back to the Future movies, if you ignore "white people actually invented rock and roll" and "maybe MILF is a more inclusive term that you originally thought." So let's get back to it, Pals, for our 100th episode spectacular and Season Two finale!!!

Pal boys, Pal boys,

Not just one or two,

Not just one or two,

There's a third for you.

Adam West did it best when he wore the crusader's vest

Mr Affleck sadly naffed it, wasn't made for Gotham habits

Robert Patz beat the stats, made for such a brilliant Bats

Then there's Christian, sure do miss 'im, even when he's hissy fittin'

But this here Michael is an eyeful, with a chin that's most delightful

And Nicholson's a tricky one, who cackles like Don Rickles, hon!

Throw in the Pal, oh give in now, before we have a mighty row

If Booksmart, does that mean Moviedumb? The answer may surprise you...

What's this?! An episode where the Pals have decided to discuss the sometimes illustrious, oft-ignominious life of Oscar, Sesame Street's grouchiest denizen? Or is it, instead, a dialectical in which the automobile industry of Australia and its multivalent products (colloquially known as Oz-cars) are given a right old lashing of the Pals' ever-waggling mouth slugs? Or, perhaps, it's some third, even more ludicrous thing? All false, I fear! Instead, the Pals are discussing the upcoming Academy Awards, including their opinions on the films themselves, as well as their predictions of the night in question. Huzzah!

On the seventh day, God rested. He had created the heavens and the Earth; all things terrestrial and cosmic had unfolded and sprung from His benevolent palms, twisting together in arcs of splendour and horror to find shape in four key elements: fire, water, wind and soil. And yet, in his infinite wisdom and boundless scope, the Lord had neglected the fifth and final element, the crucial component that would fuse these disparate particularities, making them greater as a whole than they could ever hope to be apart. God, realising his error, gave His golden wrist a mighty flick and willed into being this ultimate entity, the adhesive property He had forgotten that would guide the world into everlasting glory and hold back the tide of our suffering: He created Bruce Willis.

And the rest, as they say, is Pal-story...

The Exorcist is a story of pain. The pain of late 20th-century America, torn asunder by the dual impulses of its self-avowed exceptionalism: the urges to expand and to conserve. The pain of raising children in a world where spurious, quasi-religion dichotomies of vice and virtue erode under the weight of moral relativism. The pain of confronting one's own frailties, not just those of the flesh but those of the spirit, the pale recognition that love has its limits but terror, as always, is infinite. The pain -- most especially -- of letting Jesus f@$k you.

Pal-lelujah!

So there's a man walking through a dense woodland area, until he finally comes to a solitary cabin with rooms to let. He walks up to it and raps twice, loudly, on the door.

"Who's there?" comes a reply.

"Bob," the man responds.

"Uh huh, Bob Down, I suppose?" says the now-wary voice emanating from the cabin. "I've heard that one before, mate! You'll hafta do better than that."

"Now, look here," Bob implores, "I'm a simple man named Bob, and I'd like a place to stay for the night."

"No jokers admitted, sorry." And with that, the man will hear no more.

Later, when Bob tells this story to his Pals, he is effusive about the rudeness of the proprietor and the exhaustion he endured making his way to another establishment for the evening.

However, Bob is always insistent that the dwelling itself was a handsome venture, a property of stout build and an inviting aura, as whatever grumblings he might have about his lacklustre experiences trying to procure a bed for the night, none of that in and of itself should be construed as a Knock at the Cabin.