“I love crack. Cracky, crack, crack.”
GODDAMNIT ROB! QUIT PLAYING WITH YOUR DINGY!
“Awwww… man… remember when I was popular and everybody believed the crap I was telling them? Ya, those were good times”.
The colors man….the colors!
“Ahahahaha, ‘Nunziata.’ Nuuuuuunziata. ‘Nunzi.’ Half-nun, half-nazi. France’s half-nun, half-nazi. Ahahahahaha. Omigod, I’m so fucking high right now.”
He looks like a first grader picking a booger behind his own hand.
“Look at that guy. He’s sleeping sitting upright. He must be having one helluva dream. I mean, just look at the shit-eating grin on his face.”
Nothing like a blowjob with a happy ending during work hours.
Had he not died, Phillip Seymour Hoffman could have played him on film.
He saw the picture of Paris Hilton, didn’t he.
I hear that’s the problem with crack…you find yourself sitting there smiling at nothing long after everyone else has gone home.
“You kids are probably saying to yourselves: I’m gonna go out there and grab the world by the tail! and wrap it around and pull it down and put it in my pocket. Well I’m here to tell you that you’re probably going to find out, as you go out there, that you’re not going to amount to jack squat!”
‘Um. Mr. Ford?’
“I’m sorry….I’m just so freakin’ stoned.”
His eyes look like vaginas.
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