This is a dysfunctional family. I know. Call the newspapers. There's a headline for you.


Sheila: What's he trying to tell us?
Tommy: Probably that he wants to be put up for adoption.

Tommy: Nobody's going to drink. Everybody calm down. How much money are we talking?
Sheila: Eight grand.
Tommy: For the wedding.
Sheila and Janet: For the dress.
Tommy: I need a whiskey.

Todd: Who the hell called the cops?
Teddy: I did. You guys are getting your asses kicked in there. I figured you could use some backup.

Tommy: What's that?
Larry: Now you know why they call me "Loch Ness."

Sean: It's us against them at this point. They play dirty. We play dirty. Remember what Needles said.
Mike: What?
Sean: What did Needles say?
Needles: You're a moron.
Sean: No. That wasn't it.
Needles: Fight fire with fire.
Sean: Well, I would've remembered that. Hello.

Sean: What do you mean I have a small penis?
Emily: I'm sorry. Really, I'm not trying to be mean. I think you have a great little penis.
Sean: Ok. Can we stop calling it "little," please?
Emily: Modest?
Sean: Yeah, that's... no.
Emily: Petite?
Sean: No, I don't... ok, let's just call it little.

Needles: Tommy, I need you to go home. Don't do anything stupid for about a month.
Sean: That's not gonna happen. Did I say that out loud?

Lou: I married a hooker.
Needles: He married a hooker. I married a Russian mail order bride.
Sean: Uh, I married Maggie.
Needles: Which I'm banking on makes the hooker and the mail order bride seem sensible.
Black Shawn: I'm marrying Colleen.
Needles: Which is gonna make marrying Maggie look like a day at the beach. No offense, Tommy.
Tommy: None taken.
Franco: Yeah, well, I guess I could be considered a deadbeat dad.
Needles: And a conspiracy freak.
Mike: My gayness.
Lou: The whole nun thing.
Franco: Lesbo girlfriend.
Mike: Extreme gayness.
Needles: You know what's sad. Him being gay is the least of our public relations problems.

First off, I never fart with a new chick until like the fourth date, third maybe. Second off, I have never in my life farted the smell of a rotting corpse. I'm telling you I would have to eat a dead guy who just ate Indian food and then shit his pants, in order to smell that bad. That's how bad it was.


You think we could light like one or two... hundred more candles?


I don't want to spend the next ten years twisting in the wind trying to figure out all of this, you know, anger or grief. I don't want to be you. All the stuff you're talking about, I mean, all the stuff about God and ghosts and all of it. It doesn't make a difference, the women and the booze. You have to just go home and kiss your wife the way you kissed me. That might work a little magic.