— We`re going to the realm of monsters?
— We? No. Me. You are gonna stay here with the other chicken. That`s what i`m talking about. Gimme some. Come on! That was a good one. How do you not get it? I called her a chicken, there`s a chicken on the boat. I know she`s human, but that`s not the... You know what? Forget it. Forget it! I`m not explaining it to you. Cause then it`s not funny.
Mildred Hayes: — Hey, fuckhead!
Jason Dixon: — What?
Cedric Connolly: — Don't say, "What," Dixon, when she comes in calling you a fuckhead!
— You old cunt.
— I'm not old, Robbie.
And try not to spill it all on your way back, you marxist bastard.
— No! That's not fair.
— Fair? Who do you think you're talking to? I don't recall anybody ever accusing me of being fair before. I think I'm insulted.
— And theft means my pies.
— Your pies? Why on earth would anyone want to steal your godforsaken pies?
— My pies are the talk of Camelot.
— Oh. Yes, indeed they are — a crust like rusted iron, a filling like last year's horse dung, and the smell — oh, yes — just like the guard house's latrine!
— No one insults my pies and gets away with it!
— Oh, I'm sorry. Should I speak instead of your poisonous flans — like vomit, curdling in the noonday sun — or your dumplings? The king, himself, likened them to freshly lain frog spawn wrapped in pig snot!
But most of all, lieutenant, I resent your perfume, however subtle it may be, competing with the aroma of my fine three-dollar-and-fifty-nine cent cigar, which I will happily put out this very instant if the phallic nature of it happens to offend your goddamn fragile sensibilities. Does it?
— But most of all, what I resent is your perfume, however subtle it may be, competing with the aroma of my fine $3.59 cigar, which I will put out this instant if the phallic nature of it happens to offend your goddamned fragile sensibilities! Does it?
— No, sir Chief of Staff.
— «No, sir», what?
— The shape doesn't bother me, sir. Just the goddamned sweet stench.
Nemo me impune lacessit!
You know who you are? Want to know whose son you are? You don't. I do.
— I'd watch it. We still have a week together.
— I guess I won't get to see you go through puberty.