J.P.: Y'know, you are worse than a week of yellow shitstorms.
Chris Thorne: [passing "No Cussing" sign] Shit.
Chris Thorne: They're Brazillianaires, they have breakfast at 2pm in the afternoon.
[Judge Valkenheiser calls his court to order...]
J.P.: Welcome to Supper! How 'bout a nice glass of Hawaiian Punch?
Fausto: I won't have my sister, who was once the Queen of the Mardi Gras, sitting at a table with a pickle-shooting train!
J.P.: There you go! Does the Pope wear a hat, was Sergeant York's mother an angel, and will a banker grope for money?
J.P.: If it's an ambulance you got a chance, if it's in a hearse, it's gotta be worse!
J.P.: You really put the pin in the party hog now, girl!
J.P.: Get yer Eye-talian loafers outta my bedpan!
Chris Thorne: 110 blocks in less than 15 minutes, not bad for a one-eyed Russian immigrant.
Fausto: Where are we going?
Chris Thorne: I should have known. A Brazillionaire never forgets.
J.P.: Go fuck a bug.
[passing two dirty bikers]
Renalda: I didn't forget the butter. Alberto, the butler, forgot the butter.
[passing by three half-buried dolphins]
Miss Purdah: Don't you know you're not supposed to see
the bride on the big day?
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