Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

...when he was getting a hummer from some dude. Lip.
- Ready? Lift. - Lift.
Billy Elliot cornholing the father of my children.
Guess who's supporting them. Me. My taxes.
To get high
You know, a lot of those foster kids are messed up.
Hungry?
You okay to drive?
- He did. He offed himself. OD'd. - Yeah? What'd he take?
...and you slowly Jew me down to an unacceptable number.
- A wife, kid, you name it. - Nightmare.
- Uh-huh. That sounds just like me. - I know, right?
Never use their names again.
Yeah. Here's your chance.
You're gonna wanna check his pockets before you go.
I made it.
Fiona's a 'hood girl, not a debutante from Glencoe.
...making everyone get their dicks cut.
Ian?
Where does that leave me?
Another cool thing about hotels is that you don't have to saw your own meat.
Vodka, codeine, ecstasy, PCP and sleeping pills, with a Drano chaser.
Right over there, Carl. Turn it around.
All right, I got you.
Four cameras. Every square inch covered.
And my ancestors and I take full credit for crucifying that Christ putz.
Can you come here for a second, honey?
Yeah, for a few hours. Not overnight.
Out of my way. I buried two husbands.
Something tells me yours has too many miles on it.
But no touching the forbidden fruit until I'm knocked up.
It's like they come out of the womb wearing a suicide vest, am I right, ha, ha?
He needs me.
I need a man's suit. Something dark.