Wow. You’re a great American. This nation owes you a huge debt. Now shut the fuck up and let me do my job !
Coffee is for closers.
He steals my virtue, but he won’t drink my coffee.
I don’t need you to tell me how fucking good my coffee is, okay? I’m the one who buys it. I know how good it is. When Bonnie goes shopping she buys SHIT. I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it I want to taste it. But you know what’s on my mind right now? It AIN’T the coffee in my kitchen, it’s the dead nigger in my garage.
I aim to misbehave.
Oh, I saw. Very American. Fire enough bullets and hope to hit the target.
Shoot straight, you bastards! Don’t make a mess of it!
My, my, my, my, my, what a mess.
Nobody’s perfect.
Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?
You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off !
Anyone ever tell you you look like a little penis with that hat on?
You think I wouldn’t have been prepared? Two years I spent setting up that elevator job, two years I invested in it. You couldn’t understand the kind of commitment that I have. You ruined a man’s life’s work and you think you can walk away? You got blinders on to the world! But I got your attention now, didn’t I Jack?
Oh, what’s the matter, dollface? Down in the dumps? Sucks to be you, huh?
Well allow me to put a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up the shitter with a lubricated horse cock.
So I’m an old garbage bag put in the street, huh?.. These are the worst years, I tell you. It’s going to happen to you. I’m afraid to look in a mirror. I’m afraid I’m gonna see an old lady with white hair, just like the old ladies in the park with little bundles and black shawls waiting for the coffin. I’m 56 years old. And what am I gonna do with myself? I’ve got strength in my hands. I want to clean. I want to cook. I want to make dinner for my children. Am I an old dog to lay near the fire till my eyes close?
“I’m Tod. I’m a fox.”
“I’m Copper. I’m a hound dog!”
“Swan!”
You want monogamy? Marry a swan.
You want answers?
I want the truth!
You can’t handle the truth!
Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Santiago’s death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.