Bernie MacQuotes

Louis Hinds: [opens the door for Floyd to leave] Get the fuck out.

Floyd Henderson: Well, I guess you don't give a fuck about the money then, huh?

Louis Hinds: [suddenly looks at Louis and raises his eyebrows] What money? It's a funeral! Don't nobody get paid to sing at no damn funeral! How much?

Floyd Henderson: 40 grand.

Louis Hinds: [closes the door] Apiece?

Floyd Henderson: No, down the middle.

Louis Hinds: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO. That ain't even enough.

Floyd Henderson: The fuck you mean "that's not enough", man?

Louis Hinds: I got a lifestyle to maintain here!

Floyd Henderson: What kinda lifestyle, man? You filthy motherfucker! You got a pantry full of dogfood, but I don't see no dog!

Louis Hinds: Dog under the bed, Nigga! You lucky he ain't attacked your ass when you came in!

Floyd Henderson: YOU THE DOG, MOTHERFUCKER!

Maureen Levert: How would you deal with white-collar crime?

Mitch Gilliam: There's no such thing as white-collar crime. and there's no such thing as black-on-black crime. Crime is crime. Let me explain something to you: I don't care if you have a white collar or a tank top. If you rob me, I'll whoop your ass.

Mays Gilliam: [takes off coat] They had a speech written for me about what the people need, but you guys are the people. You know what you need. Better schools, better jobs, less crime. How many of you, right now work two jobs just to have enough money to be broke? That ain't right. If you work two jobs, and at the end of the week, you got just enough money to get your broke ass home, Let me hear you say, "That ain't right!

Crowd: That ain't right!

Gilliam: How many of you have children that they call stupid? Don't be ashamed! It ain't your fault. I asked my niece the other day, "What's four plus four?" She said, "44." But that ain't her fault! That's the school's fault. If your child's school has old-ass books and brand-new metal detectors, let me hear you say, "That ain't right!

Crowd: That ain't right!

Gilliam: [[w:Last will and testament|will] It ain't right. And now we got these corporations stealing all the money. They ain't stealing their money, they stealing our money! The pension. You work for 35 years. You thought you'd leave your kids a ], now you're gonna leave them with a won't! You show up to get your pension, they give you a pen! Give you a damn pen! What in the hell am I supposed to do with a pen? I should stab you in the neck with this pen, Mr. Pension Taker.

Old man: [stands up and points at Mays] Get your hand out of my pocket!

Gilliam: Taking everybody's pension, and nobody going to jail.

Mitch Gilliam: [to attendee] That's some bullshit. Ain't it?

Mays: Meanwhile, you and I steal a Big Mac with cheese next thing you know, we on Death Row!

Crowd: That ain't right!

Gilliam: [as crowds get more agitated; crowd responds with That ain't right! with every question; to campaign staffers; to crowd] How many of you work in a city you can't afford to live in? That ain't right! How many of you work in a mall you can't afford to shop in? That ain't right! How many of you clean up a hotel... you ain't never gonna be able to stay in? That ain't right! And we got nurses that work in hospitals they can't even afford to get sick in. It ain't right! It ain't right. It ain't right. It isn't right! That shit is wrong! It's dead wrong!

Gin: Look here, get him outta here and I'll go smooth things over with Chipeska. Tell him it was food poisoning or something.

Marcus: What do you mean, get him outta here?

Gin: Take him to the car.

Marcus: In case you didn't notice, I'm a motherfucking dwarf. So unless you got a forklift handy, maybe you should lend a hand, hmm?

Gin: That figures. You want all kind of set-asides. Special treatment cause you're handicapped. You're all the same.

Marcus: Special treatment?! I'm three-foot fucking tall, you asshole! It's a matter of physics. Draw me a sketch of how I get him to the car, huh?

Gin: [picks up Willie] Bitch, bitch, bitch!

Marcus: [[Leonardo da Vinci] Sketch it up, you fucking moron. Fucking ].

Gin: [drops Willie] What'd you call me, thigh-high?

Marcus: I called you a fucking guinea homo from the 15th-fucking-century, you dickhead!

Gin: I could stick you up my ass, small fry!

Marcus: Yeah? You sure it ain't too sore from last night?

Gin: You got some lip on you, midget.

Marcus: Yeah? Well, these lips were on your wife's pussy last night. Why don't you dust that thing off once in a while? Asshole!

Gin: We split the dough right down the middle. Any merchendise you take, I get to look at and cherry pick.

Marcus: No. Money is one thing but you ain't getting the sh...

Gin: [[w:prix fixe|pricks fix] This ain't no Chinese menu, jagoff! I tell YOU how it's gonna be. This is ]!

Willie: Pricks fix?

Marcus: Ah, he's a fucking moron.

Willie: Oh really? Is that how you got the upper hand?

Marcus: Fuck you.

Willie: Negotiating?

Marcus: You don't like it? Next year, fuck off. I can always get another box jockey.

Willie: Yeah and I can get another midget too.

Marcus: Yeah? Where? You see us hanging off of fucking trees like fucking crab apples?

Gin: [smoking a cigarette in his office] Fuck stick"?

Bob Chipeska: Yeah, I know it's odd, but as our security manager, I want you to be well aware of this. His little friend promised he won't say it in front of the children, which is fine. There is an adult's world and a child's world, and that's OK. I'm no censor.

Gin: When I look at you, you know what I think? I think America has a sad future ahead of it.

Ashtray: We didn't even do nothing.

Officer Self Hatred: What? You think you tough?

Officer Self Hatred: You ain't so tough now, little nigga. I hate your black bastards, you *stink*! I hate your black skin. I hate your black pants. I hate black pepper. I hate black keys on a piano. I hate my gums, because they're black. I hate Whoopi Goldberg's *lips*. I hate the back of Forrest Whittaker's neck. Huh? Most of all, I hate that black-ass Wesley Snipes.

Pastor Clever: [upon seeing Smokey rolling a joint] Scuse me brother. What we call drugs at 74th street Baptist church, we call a sinny-sin-sin.

Smokey: Well round here, between Normandine and the Western, we call this here a little twenty-twen-twen!

Craig: Well..

Smokey: Niggaaaa!

Pastor Clever: Why don't you give me a bit for my cataracts?

Smokey: You didn't put in on this, man.

Pastor Clever: It's better to give than receive, my brother.

Craig Jones: [points across the street to Mrs. Parker] Look, look, she's bendin over!

Pastor Clever: Lord have mercy! The Lord is my shepherd, He know what I want! Excuse me, brothers. (running across the street) Mrs. Parker! Mrs. Parker!

Smokey: [he holds up a pack of marajuana] Told you. The weed be lettin you know, where evil lurks.