Oh. Okay. I see. You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select… I don’t know… that lumpy blue sweater, for instance because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise. It’s not lapis. It’s actually cerulean. And you’re also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves Saint Laurent… wasn’t it who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of eight different designers. And then it, uh, filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic Casual Corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room from a pile of stuff.
Where did you get that dress? It’s awful! And those shoes, and that coat…jeeeeez!
Does Barry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?
Six guys wearing electric orange…
Not a bright orange, but a soft orange, like the sunset.
We are followers of Peter the Dressmaker. He was Christ’s tailor.
You’re afraid, but you really don’t know the reason why. You think it’s his robe that made you ill. But it’s your own conscience, your own decent shame. Even when you crucified him you felt it.
That’s my robe.
If you want to survive out here, you have to know where your towel is.
Can I borrow your towel for a sec? My car just hit a water buffalo.
Nothing in this world is more surprising than the attack without mercy!
Striker: My orders came through. My squadron ships out tomorrow. We’re bombing the storage depots at Daiquiri at 1800 hours. We’re coming in from the north, below their radar.
Elaine: When will you be back?
Striker: I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.
I’m a retread. I had my shot at combat in the first war. I guess they thought I was to old for combat this time, so now I fly a desk.
Do you want to kill Nazis?
Does the Pope write in Encyclical?
Before we even begin to work, to feed this craving of ours, we must find a patron, a rich man of affairs, or a merchant, or a prince or… a Pope.
In this life one thing counts: in the bank, large amounts.
I’m afraid these don’t grow on trees; you’ll have to pick a pocket or two.
Colonel… that Coca-Cola machine. I want you to shoot the lock off it. There may be some change in there.
Well, for once, the rich white man is in control.
So, here’s my proposition: you have thirty days in which to spend thirty million bucks. If you can do it, you get three hundred million!