Sugar, enriched flour, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, polysorbate 60, and yellow dye number five. Just everything a growing boy needs.
Every child, except one, grows up.
And then your mom goes around the corner and she licks it up.
The key to faking out the parents is the clammy hands. It’s a good non-specific symptom; I’m a big believer in it. A lot of people will tell you that a good phony fever is a dead lock, but, uh… you get a nervous mother, you could wind up in a doctor’s office. That’s worse than school. You fake a stomach cramp, and when you’re bent over, moaning and wailing, you lick your palms. It’s a little childish and stupid, but then, so is high school.
Madame, will you do me the honor, the favor, will you give me the infinite joy of bestowing on me Gigi’s hand in marriage?
After three husbands, it takes a lot of butter to get you back in the frying pan.
Well, these thighs haven’t gone out of the house without Lycra on them since I was 14.
Well that explains it! That’s why these people treat me like some dime-store floozy.
Let me tell you what “Like a Virgin” is about.
Here’s what you do: you tell her you’re a virgin. You test her with this shit. Okay? Here, here, tell me. This is how’s it gonna go down. Tell me.
What the cops never figured out, and what I know now, was that these men would never break, never lie down, never bend over for anybody. Anybody.
Anybody want a peanut?
Eat something. You look like a swizzle stick!
Bite your teeth into the ass of life.
Wait a minute. Who’s directing this, you or me? Let me check… why, that’s my ass. That’s my ass in the director’s chair! Shit, I must be the director!
He can’t make that kind of decision. He’s just a grunt!
I’ll dispute that, sir.
Listen, I came to make peace. We got off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends?
I want us to be friends, Faye, I really do. And we all know that friends don’t hit each other… unless they have to.
Stop that. My hands are dirty.