What’s in the box? What’s in the fucking box?
Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
This guy's methodical, exacting, and worst of all, patient.
You're no messiah. You're a movie of the week. You're a fucking t-shirt, at best.
I like the stink of the streets. It makes me feel good. And I like the smell of it, it opens up my lungs. And it gives me a hard-on.
Detective. Detective. DETECTIVE! You're looking for me.
We're both getting old. All that we have left now are our memories. If you go to that party on Saturday night, you won't have those anymore. Tear up that invitation.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "The world is a fine place and worth fighting for." I agree with the second part.
I'm not interested in friends from those places, and I don't trust politicians! You're still acting like a street schmuck! You know, if we'd listened to you, we'd still be rolling out drunks for a living!