Garland Greene: He’s a fountain of misplaced rage. Name your cliche; Mother held him too much or not enough, last picked at kickball, late night sneaky uncle, whatever. Now he’s so angry that moments of levity actually cause him pain; give him headaches. Happiness, for that gentleman, hurts.
Baby O: What’s wrong with him?
Cameron Poe: My first guess would be… a lot.
Cameron Poe: There’s only two men I trust. One is me. The other is not you.
Cameron Poe: Put… the bunny… back… in the… box.
Cyrus Grissom: Say a word about this over the radio, and the next wings you see will belong to the flies buzzing over your rotting corpse!
Garland: Define irony. Irony is a bunch of idiots singing a song on plane made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.
Local cop: I got a problem with a corpse.
Local cop: Yeah, fell from the sky. I don’t think he’s an astronaut.
Garland Green: What if I told you insane was working a 50-hour week for fifty years, at the end of which they tell you to piss off. Ending up in some retirement village, hoping to die rather than suffering the indignity of trying to make it to the toilet on time. Wouldn’t you consider that to be insane?