Frey and Hawkeye arrive at a dreary colony world, looking for spam... One of the inhabitants is a cranky old Brit named Scrote, who is beating a cat for some reason.

Cat: Rewr! Rewr! Rewr! Rewr!
Frey: Old Scrote!
Cat: Rewr!
[Scrote stops beating cat]
[music stops]
Frey: Is there anywhere on this world where we could find some spam?
[dramatic chord]
Scrote: Who sent you?
Frey: The Knights Who Say 'Foo'.
Scrote: Aggh! No! Never! We have no spam here.
Frey: If you do not tell us where we can find some spam, my friend and I will say... we will say... 'foo'.
Scrote: Agh! Do your worst!
Frey: Very well! If you will not assist us voluntarily,... foo!
Scrote: No! Never! No spam!
Frey: Foo!
Scrote: [cough]
Hawkeye: Fee!
Frey: No, no, no, no...
Hawkeye: Fee!
Frey: No, it's not that, it's 'foo'.
Hawkeye: Fee!
Frey: No, no-- 'foo'. You're not doing it properly. 'Foo'.
Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey and Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey: That's it. That's it. You've got it.
Frey and Hawkeye: Foo!
Scrote: Ohh!
Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey: Foo!
Scrote: Agh!
Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey: Foo!
Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey: Foo!
Hawkeye: Foo!
Moofighters: Are you saying 'foo' to that old Brit?
Frey: Erm, yes.
Moofighters: Oh, what sad times are these when passing ruffians can 'foo' at will to old limeys. There is a pestilence upon this land. Nothing is sacred. Even those who arrange and compose spam are under considerable economic stress at this period in history.
Frey: Did you say 'spam'?
Moofighters: Yes. Spam is my trade. I am a spammer. My name is Moofighters the Spammer. I compose, arrange, and post spam.
Hawkeye: Foo!
Frey: No! No, no, no! No!