— Jack. Elizabeth is in danger.
— Have you considered just locking her up somewhere?
— She is locked up, bound to hang for helping you.
— There comes a time when one must take responsibility for one's mistakes.
I'm tired, boss. Tired of being on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain. I'm tired of never having me a buddy to be with... to tell me where we's going to, coming from, or why. Mostly, I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world... every day. There's too much of it. It's like pieces of glass in my head...all the time.
Everyone gets help from someone else at some point in their lives. So someday, you should help someone too.
It turns out we can't save people from themselves. We just treat 'em. Treat that kid with a respiratory problem and when he comes back with cancer, go ahead and treat that.
Fine, Newbie. Let me tell you a little story. It starts every day at five, about the time you're setting your hair for work. I am awakened by a sound. Is that a cat being gutted by a fishing knife? No. That's my son. He's hungry and he's got a load in his pants so big that I'm considering hiring a stable boy. I go ahead and dig in because I do love the lad and, gosh, you know me, I'm a giver. And I'm off to the hospital where my cup runneth over with both quality colleagues, such as yourself, and a proverbial clown car full of sick people. But my pay is about the same as guys who breaks rocks with other rocks and I only have to work 300 or 400 hours a week, so, so far, I'm a pretty happy camper. Then I head back home, where I'm greeted by the faint musk of baby vomit in a house that used to smell like, well, nothing. It used to smell like nothing at all. All I wanna do before I restart this whole glorious cycle is lay on the couch and have a beer, watch some Sports Center, and if I'm not too sweaty, stick my hand right down my pants, but apparently that's not in Jordan's definition of «pulling your weight». So, there you are, superstar. Fix that.