Bibbity-bobbity-boo!
“Analog dos mirabus spirae cuttar, nimbus hypnosticos lazzum bid-dar.”
“There she goes again. It must be number one on her Hit Parade.”
Mercedes, number one!
Porsche. It’s a little too small to get laid IN, but you get laid the minute you get out!
“Get out!”
Go away! I’m not home.
I’ll be back.
Look! It’s moving. It’s alive. It’s alive… It’s alive, it’s moving, it’s alive, it’s alive, it’s alive, it’s alive, IT’S ALIVE!
Quiet dignity and grace.
How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?
.
A hundred and twenty five years… Oh God, Oh God… I’ll be a hundred and sixty one when I get out.
Take it easy, killer. Stay loose.
Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.
Is the statue made entirely of gold?
I think I’ll go to sleep and dream about piles of gold getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there’s the rub. For in this sleep of death what dreams may come…
I’ve always figured it that you die each day and each day is a box, you see, all numbered and neat; but never go back and lift the lids, because you’ve died a couple of thousand times in your life, and that’s a lot of corpses, each dead a different way, each with a worse expression. Each of those days is a different you, somebody you don’t know or understand or want to understand.
Man, I can’t wait for you to be dead.
Don’t you people ever die?
He’s dead, Jim.