Ed Singer: Don't laugh AT meeeee.
Henry: The cops are around, we gotta lay low for a while... wow, I never thought I'd say that.
Melissa Marr: Now, that's enter-fucking-tainment.
Gilbert: Every theatrical performance is a contrivance by its very nature.
Sullivan: Yes, but this piece consists entirely of an artificial and implausible situation.
Gilbert: If you wish to write a Grand Opera about a prostitute, dying of consumption in a garret, I suggest you contact Mr Ibsen in Oslo. I am sure he will be able to furnish you with something suitably dull.
Cole Sear: I see dead people.
Leo Morton: Ed, can you take that Delta?
Ed Clabes: No, I can't take the Delta, my airspace is finite.
Barry Plotkin: Uh-oh, Ed's going down the drain.
Ed Clabes: I am not going down the drain.
Barry Plotkin: Oh yes you are. It happens every time you use the term "finite."
Sly: They've got Whit.
Dan: Who's got Whit? Wait, you're Whit.
Tillover: That's my order. My wish, is to slow dance with you, for one minute, Compton style.
P.A. Announcer: The blouse man is on the premises.
Stan: Love is just lust in disguise, and lust fades, so you damn well better be with someone who can stand you.
Richard Twat: As we always say at the Guest House Paradiso: Have fun, don't go in the water if you know what's good for you and try not to get shit on the sheets.
Maggie Witzky: Why are you doing this?
Tom Witzky: Water softens up the dirt.
Zenon: Zetus lupetus.
Dave: But movies cost millions of dollars to make.
Robert K. Bowfinger: That's after gross net deduction profit percentage deferment ten percent of the nut. Cash, every movie cost $2,184.
Narrator: What lingered after them was not life, but the most trivial list of mundane facts: a clock ticking on a wall, a room dim at noon, and the outrageousness of a human being thinking only of herself.
Michael/The Man: If your going through some shit in your life chances are somebody else has gone through the same thing before ya. And they've written about it. Some poet or philosopher has been through the same type of crap, and they've written about it. And when you find that poem or piece of writing. You think bloody hell this bastard has just summed it all up. It's kinda comforting. Know what I mean?
The Shoveller: God's given me a gift. I shovel well. I shovel very well.
Alan Mann: I can't fart loud enough to express my opinion.
Vince Boudreau: If a man builds a thousand bridges and sucks one dick, they don't call him a bridge-builder... they call him a cocksucker.
Frank Pierce: I realised that my training was useful in less than ten percent of the calls, and saving lives was rarer than that. After a while, I grew to understand that my role was less about saving lives than about bearing witness. I was a grief mop. It was enough that I simply turned up.