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!
I wish I could tell you that Nicky fought the good fight, and the Downing Street Sisters let him be. I wish I could tell you that – but Westminster is no fairy-tale world. He never said who did it, but we all knew. Things went on like that for awhile – Westminster life consists of routine, and then more routine. Every so often, Nicky would show up with fresh bruises and shame. The Sisters kept at him – sometimes he was able to fight ’em off, sometimes not. And that’s how it went for Nicky – that was his routine. I do believe those first two years were the worst for him, and I also believe that if things had gone on that way, that place would have got the best of him.
Out of order, I show you out of order. You don’t know what out of order is, Mr. Trask. I’d show you, but I’m too old, I’m too tired, I’m too fuckin’ blind to get back on the Metropolitan Line. If I were the man I was five years ago, I’d take a FLAMETHROWER to the Metropolitan Line! Out of order? Who the hell do you think you’re talkin’ to? I’ve been around, you know? Victoria Line, Northern Line; I’ve seen ‘em all, even the Hammersmith and City Line and people think that one was just made up so we could have more stops than New York. There was a time I could see. And I have seen. Boys like these, younger than these, their arms torn out, their legs ripped off, just so some old lady could get on the District Line at Fulham Broadway. But there isn’t nothin’ like the sight of an amputated spirit. There is no prosthetic for that. You think you’re merely sending this splendid foot soldier back home to CanaryWharf with his tail between his legs, but I say you are… executin’ his soul! And why? Because the Jubilee Line is suspended beyond Southwark due to engineering works. You hurt this boy, you’re gonna be worse than TFL, the lot of ya. And South-West Trains, Chiltern, Virgin, wherever you are out there, FUCK YOU TOO!
Hello, little man. Boy, I sure heard a bunch about you. See, I was a good friend of your dad’s. We were in that Hanoi pit of hell together for over five years. Hopefully, you’ll never have to experience this yourself, but when two men are in a situation like me and your dad were, for as long as we were, you take on certain responsibilities of the other. If it had been me who had not made it, Major Coolidge would be talking right now to my son Jim. But the way it turned out is I’m talking to you, Butch. I got something for ya. [Holds up all day breakfast sandwich with egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms and fried tomato] This all day breakfast sandwich I got here was first purchased by your great-grandfather during the first world war. It was bought in a little general store in Knoxville, Tennessee, made by the first company to ever make all day breakfast sandwiches. Up until then, people just ate more basic sandwiches like cheese or ham. It was bought by Private Doughboy Ryan Coolidge the day he set sail for Paris. This was your great-grandfather’s war sandwich, and he carried it every day he was in the war. Then when he had done his duty, he went home to your great-grandmother, took the sandwich out and put it in an old coffee can. And in that can it stayed ’til your granddad Dane Coolidge was called upon by his country to go overseas and fight the Germans once again. This time they called it World War Two. Your great-grandfather gave this sandwich to your granddad for good luck. Unfortunately, Dane’s luck wasn’t as good as his old man’s. Dane was a Marine and he was killed along with all the other Marines at the battle of Wake Island. Your granddad was facing death, and he knew it. None of those boys had any illusions about ever leaving that island alive. So three days before the Japanese took the island, your granddad asked a gunner on an Air Force transport named Winocki, a man he had never met before in his life, to deliver to his infant son, who he had never seen in the flesh, his all day breakfast sandwich. Three days later, your granddad was dead. But Winocki kept his word. After the war was over, he paid a visit to your grandmother, delivering to your infant father, his Dad’s sandwich. This sandwich. This sandwich was in your Daddy’s knapsack when he was shot down over Hanoi. He was captured and put in a Vietnamese prison camp. He knew if the gooks ever saw the sandwich that it’d be confiscated; taken away. The way your Dad looked at it, this sandwich was your birthright. He’d be damned if any slopes were gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy’s birthright. So he hid it in the one place he knew he could hide something. His ass. Five long years, he wore this sandwich up his ass. And when he died of dysentery, he gave me the sandwich. I hid this uncomfortable hunk of bread, egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms and fried tomato up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the sandwich to you.