— I'd like to disagree with you, Colonel.
— You're in no position to disagree with me, boy. I got a loaded. 45 here. You got pimples.
— When were you born, son? Around the time of the Round Table? Hah. Haven't you heard? Conscience is dead.
— No, I haven't heard.
— Well, then, take the fucking wax outta your ears!
— I'm sorry.
— Don't be sorry. How would you know, watchin' MTV all your life?
— Charlie, how do you feel about skiing? You in the mood for the white-bosomed slopes of Vermont?
<...>
— Well, how much are these white-bosomed slopes of Vermont?
— 1,200. Includes a nine-course, champagne Thanksgiving dinner.
— $1,200 is a little rich for my blood, Harry.
— Well, how short are you?
— How short, Harry? So short it wouldn't be worth the trouble of you and George to measure.