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Al Pacino in "The Devil's Advocate":
"Y'know, boy, guilt is like a bag of fucking bricks. All you gotta do is set it down.....Who are you carrying all those bricks for anyway? God? Is that it? God? Well, I'll tell ya, lemme give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He's a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts! He gives this extraordinary gift and then--what does he do? I swear--for his own amusement--his own private cosmic gag reel--he sets the rules in opposition. It's the goof of all time! Look. But don't touch! Touch. But don't taste! Taste. Don't swallow! [laughs] And while you're jumping from one foot to the next, he's laughing his sick fucking ass off!! He's a tight ass, he's a sadist, he's an absentee landlord!! Worship that never!"
"Fight Club":
"Meditation Guide: And you open the door, and you step inside. We're inside our hearts. Now imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light. That's right, the pain, the pain itself, is a white ball of healing light.
Tyler: I don't think so. This is your life, good to the last drop. It doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. This isn't a seminar, this isn't a weekend retreat. Where you are now, you can't even imagine what the bottom will be like. Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything. Nothing is static; everything is falling. Everything is falling apart. This is your life. Doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake! You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else! We are all part of the same compost heap. We are the all singing, all dancing crap of the world. You are not your bank account, you are not the clothes you wear, you are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your bowel cancer, you are not your grande latte, you are not the car you drive. You are not your fucking khakis. You have to give up. You have to give up. You have to realize, that some day you will die. Until you know that, you are useless. I say, let me never be complete. I say, may I never be content. I say, deliver me from Swedish furniture! I say, deliver me from clever art! I say, deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth! I say, you have to give up. I say, evolve; and let the chips fall where they may. This is your life, doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time."
"25th Hour" (Edward Norton):
No, Fuck You
written by David Benioff, from his novel
"(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, grinning behind my back. These squeegee men dirtying up my clean windshield. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Inclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their palmaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their dainty, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Armani scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their penis violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturelle Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in parks slope to the split levels in Staten Island. If we have an earthquake, I'll welcome it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)"
And last, but not least, a piece from a standup routine of the late Bill Hicks:
"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question, is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey - don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride..."
And we... kill those people.
Ha ha
"Shut him up."
"We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real."
Just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter because: It's just a ride."
"Y'know, boy, guilt is like a bag of fucking bricks. All you gotta do is set it down.....Who are you carrying all those bricks for anyway? God? Is that it? God? Well, I'll tell ya, lemme give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He's a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts! He gives this extraordinary gift and then--what does he do? I swear--for his own amusement--his own private cosmic gag reel--he sets the rules in opposition. It's the goof of all time! Look. But don't touch! Touch. But don't taste! Taste. Don't swallow! [laughs] And while you're jumping from one foot to the next, he's laughing his sick fucking ass off!! He's a tight ass, he's a sadist, he's an absentee landlord!! Worship that never!"
"Fight Club":
"Meditation Guide: And you open the door, and you step inside. We're inside our hearts. Now imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light. That's right, the pain, the pain itself, is a white ball of healing light.
Tyler: I don't think so. This is your life, good to the last drop. It doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. This isn't a seminar, this isn't a weekend retreat. Where you are now, you can't even imagine what the bottom will be like. Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It's only after you've lost everything, that you're free to do anything. Nothing is static; everything is falling. Everything is falling apart. This is your life. Doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake! You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else! We are all part of the same compost heap. We are the all singing, all dancing crap of the world. You are not your bank account, you are not the clothes you wear, you are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your bowel cancer, you are not your grande latte, you are not the car you drive. You are not your fucking khakis. You have to give up. You have to give up. You have to realize, that some day you will die. Until you know that, you are useless. I say, let me never be complete. I say, may I never be content. I say, deliver me from Swedish furniture! I say, deliver me from clever art! I say, deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth! I say, you have to give up. I say, evolve; and let the chips fall where they may. This is your life, doesn't get any better then this. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time."
"25th Hour" (Edward Norton):
No, Fuck You
written by David Benioff, from his novel
"(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, grinning behind my back. These squeegee men dirtying up my clean windshield. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Inclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their palmaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their dainty, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Armani scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their penis violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturelle Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in parks slope to the split levels in Staten Island. If we have an earthquake, I'll welcome it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)"
And last, but not least, a piece from a standup routine of the late Bill Hicks:
"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question, is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey - don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride..."
And we... kill those people.
Ha ha
"Shut him up."
"We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real."
Just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter because: It's just a ride."
