Col. Jessep: You want dancing?
Kaffee: I think I’m entitled to.
Col. Jessep: *You want dancing?*
Kaffee: *I want the funk!*
Col. Jessep: *You can’t handle the funk!*
Col. Jessep: Son, we live in a world that has Coldplay, and Coldplay has to be guarded against by men in platform boots. Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the Funkadelic. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Santiago’s slap bass, while tragic, probably got funky. And my moves, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, get funky. You don’t want the funk because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me laying it down, you need me laying it down. We use words like honor, coda, groove. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent making funk. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and dances under the blanket of the very funk that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a guitar, and bring the funk. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
Kaffee: Did you free your mind?
Col. Jessep: I did the job I…
Kaffee: *Did you free your mind?*
Col. Jessep: *You’re Goddamn right I did!*