Bad Guy: Your brother. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: You're... you're looking for my brother? I don't know where he is. He wanted to stay with me, but I told him... Bad Guy: 8 hours, your brother, $15,000. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: $15,000, my brother, 8 hours. Well, but if... Bad Guy: Your brother... Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: ...my brother... Bad Guy: $15,000, 8 hours. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: Yeah, okay, but if I can't find my brother, can I give you the $15,000? Do you still need my brother, or...? Bad Guy: 8 hours, your brother, $15,000. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: All three of those things? Bad Guy: Correct. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: All three? Bad Guy: Correct. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: [reading aloud] Dear attractive woman number 2, only once in my life have I responded to a person the way I've responded to you, but I've forgotten when it was or even if it was in fact me that responded. I may not know much, but I know that the wind sings your name endlessly, although with a slight lisp that makes it difficult to understand if I'm standing near an air conditioner. I know that your hair sits atop your head as though it could sit nowhere else. I know that your figure would make a sculptor cast aside his tools, injuring his assistant who was looking out the window instead of paying attention. I know that your lips are as full as that sexy french model's that I desperately want to fuck. I know that if for an instant I could have you lie next to me, or on top of me, or sit on me, or stand over me and shake, then I would be the happiest man in my pants. I know all of this, and yet you do not know me. Change your life; accept my love. Or, at least let me pay you to accept it. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: I may vote Republican, but I'm a firm believer in gum control. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: Remember: Be true to your teeth, and they won't be false to you. Dr. Jeffrey Korchak: You don't have to floss all your teeth; just the ones you want to keep. Elmo Oxygen: Fuck you guys! No more of this mayonnaise... this shit! I'm outta here! Fuck you! Fletcher Munson: Hello! Neighbor: Hello. Fletcher Munson: How are you? Neighbor: Fine. Fletcher Munson: Is your wife coming over tonight? Because her big ass always leaves me satisfied. Neighbor: Nice of you to mention her. She enjoys sex with you much more than she does with me. Fletcher Munson: I'm sure she says that to all the men in the neighborhood. Neighbor:
You may be right about that one.
Fletcher Munson: I'll see you later. Neighbor: Okay. Mrs. Nameless Numberhead Man: Arsenal. Nose army. Elmo Oxygen: Nose army. Beef diaper? Mrs. Nameless Numberhead Man: Nomenclature. Elmo Oxygen: Throbbing dust generation! Mrs. Nameless Numberhead Man: Drum tissue outburst. Elmo Oxygen: Jigsaw. Uh, fragment chief butter. King surgery mind? Mrs. Nameless Numberhead Man: Bunny bucket. Elmo Oxygen: Precision galley sponge. Mrs. Nameless Numberhead Man: Smell sign. Newswoman: The federal government announced today that in an effort to eradicate the national debt, it will be selling the state of Rhode Island to a group of private investors, for a reported $18 billion. The investors plan to enclose the entire state with an all-weather roof, and turn it into the world's largest shopping mall. When asked for comment, a White House spokesperson would only say, "Well, at least we didn't sell it to the fucking Japanese." Right Hand Man: Who's that... that moron, the one who used to work in your sector. The one who wears the brown shirt all the time? Fletcher Munson: Oh, Nameless Numberhead Man? Mrs. Munson: Y'know, there was a time... there was a time when I felt like an old rag with a stain you couldn't get out, and you... you were like a piece of rotting fruit on a window sill. And it was great. Julius Caesar: Shut the fuck up, clown. Fletcher Munson: [sunnily, on homecoming] Generic greeting! Mrs. Munson: [warmly] Generic greeting returned! [they kiss and chuckle at each other] Fletcher Munson: Imminent sustenance. Mrs. Munson: Overly dramatic statement regarding upcoming meal. Fletcher Munson: Oooh! False reaction indicating hunger and excitement! Fletcher Munson: [wife snuggles up amorously] Ooh! *Really* well-rehearsed speech about workload and stress. [pause] Fletcher Munson: Genuine sorrow. Um . . . truthful-sounding promises of future satisfaction? Enticement to agree? Mrs. Munson: [pause] Accepted. Fletcher Munson: Gratitude. Minister at funeral: [deadpan] Lester Richards is dead. And aren't you glad it wasn't you? Don't you wish you felt something? How many men here are attracted to Shelley, his lovely wife? She's a babe. And how many women here wish that their husbands would drop dead and leave them a big fat insurance policy? Yes, I thought so. Hell, it'll be years before you figure out what Lester's death really means. So let's forget the blah blah blah, and go have a drink. Amen. Elmo Oxygen:
I can make sense out of yesterday. Can you understand the power of that?