| Edgar Friendly (DL): See . . . according to Cocteau's plan, I'm the enemy. 'Cause I like to think. I like to read. I'm into freedom of speech and freedom of choice. I'm the kind of guy who likes to sit in a greasy spoon and wonder, Gee, should I have the T-bone steak or the jumbo rack of barbequed ribs with a side order of gravy fries? I want high cholesterol. I wanna eat bacon and butter and buckets of cheese, okay? I wanna smoke a cuban cigar the size of Cincinatti in the non-smoking section. I wanna run through the streets naked with green jello all over my body reading Playboy magazine. Why? Because I suddenly might feel the need to, okay, pal? I've seen the future. You know what it is? It's a forty-seven year old virgin sitting around in his beige pajamas drinking a broccoli-banana shake singing "I'm an Oscar Meyer weiner." |
| Armor O'Malley (DL): I don't think he's
gonna answer me. He would've answered me, but Maria here, being the bitch
that she is, she cut his tongue out before I had a chance to question him.
And Java over here, the mother fucker, he chopped his hands off. And then
. . . fuckin' guy dies on me.
Maria (Brenda Bakke): The tongue part was an accident. |
|
| Armor: So . . . help me out here, Guzman. I'm Irish, maybe I'm thick. | |
| Armor: You know something? You look an awful lot like your brother. I mean, the way he used to look. God. I miss him. Sometimes I wish I hadn't killed him . . . ah, but that's living in the past. | |
| Armor: Fuck me.
Beep Explosion Dani Servigo (Christopher Lambert): Holy shit! |
| You know what I don't want on MTV? I'll tell you what. Aerosmith, Vanilla Ice, and Cher, okay? No Crosby, no Stills, no Nash. No bald guys, no fat guys, no fat bald guys. No rock stars who look like history professors, okay? R.E.M.? No. Marky Mark? No. P.M. Dawn? No. No half-hour comedy hour, no one hour comedy hour. No rock, no jocks, no Ed, no Dre, no Pauly, no Joiner. All I want is Cindy Crawford, okay? House of Style twenty-four hours a day. No MTV News unless it's news about Cindy. What she's doing, what she's wearing, what she smells like, okay? No music unless it's songs about Cindy, okay? I want half-hour specials about Cindy. I want hour-long rockumentaries about Cindy. I want "Cindy Unplugged." I want acoustic Cindy. I want long, drawn-out, slow-motion shots of Cindy walking. Cindy sleeping. Cindy eating an Eskimo Pie naked on the roof of the Empire State Building, okay? I wanna change the House of Style to the House of Cindy. Not MTV--CTV. No rock, no promos, no Richard Gere. Just me and Cindy, okay? I think you hear me knocking, Richard, and I think I'm coming in, and I got a box full of eskimo pies with me. | |
| Sting. He wants to save the seals, he wants to save the rainforest. How 'bout saving your hair, okay, pal? | |
| One word--drugs. I grew up in the seventies. We did a lot of drugs,
and listened to a lot of bad music and wore a lot of stupid clothing like
bell-bottoms and platform shoes. Do you want some advice? Here it is. (puts
hands together) This is your pants. (forms an A with hands) This
is your pants on drugs. Okay? Five words, folks. K.C. and the Sunshine
Band.
Cocaine. There's a good idea. I want to do a drug that makes my penis small, makes my heart explode, makes my nose bleed, and sucks all my money out of the bank. Can I do that? Can I sit in a room and sweat for seven hours? I wanna make this face all night (contorts face). I wanna talk to complete idiots about nothing for hours on end, with no penis and a nosebleed. Is that possible? Where do I sign up for that? And when it comes to crack, I've got a little piece of advice for you, folks. Never do a drug named after a part of your own ass, okay? I think you hear me knocking, and I think I'm coming in. I'm already in. I'm wandering around the house, and you know what? I found your bell-bottoms. (laughs) |
| Eddie (Saverio Guerra): What're you, nuts?
Jake (DL): What? Eddie: What if she's a psycho? Jake: She's not a fuckin' psycho. Jesus. Eddie: Didn't you ever see Fatal Attraction? Jake: No. Eddie: Basic Instinct? Jake: Umm . . . no. Eddie: Jesus Christ! Disclosure? The whole Michael Douglas fuckin' trilogy? Fuck! The guy devoted his life to warning other guys not to fuck around on their wives. |
|
| Jake: Boy, this place, uh, looks great.
I'll tell ya. Before you guys moved in it was a real shithole.
Neighbor (Tanya Pohlkotte): What'd you say? Jake: Uh . . . nothing, I said, uh, the place looks, uh, terrific. |
| Mike McCracken (DL): (Lounge singing)
You really got me going . . . you got me so I don't know what I'm doin'.
You . . . really got me now--you got me so I can't sleep at night. Oh,
yeah . . . you--you really got me now. You got me so I don't know what
I'm doin'! Ohhh, yeah! You really got me now! You got me so I can't sleep
at night!
Girls: You really got me Mike: You really got me! . . . Mike and girls: You really got me! Mike: Don't ever st-- |
|
| Mike: I dunno. When I gave it to York,
I . . . thought she was one of your men.
General Mortars (William Shatner): Act in haste, repent in leisure. Mike: But he who hesitates is lost. Mortars: Never judge a book by its cover. Mike: What you see is what you get. Mortars: Loose lips . . . sink ships. Mike: Life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting, my friend. |
| Knock knock. Who's there? Mickey. Mickey who? Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mantle, Mickey Rourke, Mickey Finn, Mickey Dolenz, Mickey Knox. Guilty? You bet your ass. But I think Charlie Manson said it best when he said, "I'm not here, man, I'm not here." I don't blame Mickey or Mallory. I blame Ajax and Jack Frost and Frosted Flakes and Achy-Brakey, Lyndon Johnson, Johnny Cash, Johnny Carson, Johnny Quest. I blame the Pope and Pop Tarts and the Popeil Pocket Fisherman (Argh!) and jip, and jazz, and O.J. Simpson, JFK, RFK, FDR, FBI, CIA, SPP, AFL, CIO, ABC, NBC, JVC VCR. I blame John Wilkes Booth and Mark David Chapman and sir hand sir hand sir hand and Mary Tyler Moore. I blame all people who use greenay. Big Bird (gunshot), Goofy (gunshot), Barney! (gunshot) I blame Jesus Christ and Jon Bon Jovi. I stick my left index finger in Wayne Newton's left eyeball. Not their parents. Not drugs. Not society at large. You know who I really blame? The Pittsburgh Pirates. Because the 1947 baseball scouted a hot young pitching prospect named Fidel Castro. Hot out of Havana High, he had big speed and a nasty curveball, but at the last minute the teams all recinded their offers. Just think about that, eh? If Fidel had been drafted? Huh? Huh? No Bay of Pigs, no Kennedy assassination, no coverup, no Vietnam, no Nixon, no Ford, no bell-bottoms, no Brady Bunch, no Earth Shoes, no Reagan, no crack. No--we'd all be eating hot dogs and apple pie and smoking big fat Cuban cigars. M-I-C. See you real soon. K-E-Y? Why . . . ? Because they want to, that's why. (He lights a cigarette) |