The night’s as hot as hell. It’s a lousy room in a lousy part of a lousy town – I’m staring at a goddess. She’s telling me she wants me. I’m not going to waste one more minute wondering how I’ve gotten this lucky. She smells like angels ought to smell, the perfect burger… the Goddess.
Big Mac. She says her name is Big Mac.
It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing and there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. Right? And this bag was just dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. That’s the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video’s a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember… I need to remember… Sometimes there’s so much pretentiousness in the world, I feel like I can’t take it, and my heart is just going to cave in.
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!*
Trinity: I know why you’re here, Neo. I know what you’ve been doing… why you hardly sleep, why you live alone, and why night after night, you sit by your computer. You’re looking for porn. I know because I was once looking for the same thing. And there’s a tissue stuck to your foot. And when I found porn, I realised I wasn’t really looking for porn. I was looking for an answer. It’s the question that drives us, Neo. It’s the question that brought you here. You know the question, just as I did.
Neo: Nope, it’s gone. Really sorry, mind just went. That’s really frustrating; it was on the tip of my tongue.
Trinity: The question is out there, Neo, and it’s looking for you, and it will find you if you want it to. And stop watching blue movies for 5 minutes.
Dr Anthony, you’ve psychoanalyzed for us in the past, and we’ve always been satisfied, which is why it’s very hard for me to come down here today. One of my men was psychoanalyzed today in your territory, and the chinks tell me the analyst was of the… Jungian persuasion. Now, wait, there’s more. You’ll love this. Not two hours later, a little twelve-year-old girl comes to my building, armed to the teeth with prescription pads and bottles of valium and lithium and with the sole intention of psychoanalyzing me and helping me overcome my issues through a course of therapy. And guess who comes to get her? The very same Jungian.
She lives beyond the grace of God, a wanderer in the outer darkness of the Australian outback. She is “Nadine Dorris MP”, “Mad Nad”, a narcissistic, publicity-hungry politician. These creatures do not die like the bee after the first sting, but instead grow strong and become immortal once infected by another narcissistic, publicity-hungry politician, such as George “The Cat From Celebrity Big Brother” Galloway MP.
So, my friends we fight not one beast but legions that go on age after age after age, feeding expense accounts on the blood of the living.
Hold your ground, hold your ground! Sons of Cole, of Lampard, my brothers! Not Drogba or Malouda because they didn’t vocally support me over that whole racism thing and besides, Drogba’s no longer a Chelsea player. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me, even though I’ve been cleared of all wrongdoing in a court of law. A day may come when the courage of England’s Brave John Terry fails, when I forsake my friends and break all bonds of fellowship, besides Wayne Bridge’s I mean, but it is not this day when we top the table by 4 points with only Sunderland in 13th with a game in hand. An hour of woes and shattered shinpads, when the age of Terry comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight, although not the FA’s decision that I’m guilty of racially insulting Anton Ferdinand because I’ve decided not to appeal! But other than that, by all that you hold dear on this good Earth – your cars and bling and houses and WAGs and Jacuzzis – I bid you stand, Men of Chelsea!