Dark Helmet: Who made that man a gunner?
Maj. Asshole: I did, sir. He's my ******.
Dark Helmet: Who is he?
Col. Sandurz: He's an Asshole, sir.
Dark Helmet: I know that. What's his name?
Col. Sandurz: That is his name, sir. Asshole, Major Asshole.
Dark Helmet: And his ******?
Col. Sandurz: He's an Asshole too, sir. Gunner's Mate, First Class, Philip Asshole.
Dark Helmet: How many Assholes we got on this ship, any how?
Everyone: Yo!
Dark Helmet: I knew it. I'm surrounded by Assholes. Keep firing, Assholes!
Morton Hull: Do you realize that more people will be watching you tonight, than all those who have seen theater plays in the last forty years?
Chance the Gardener: Why?
Now listen to me, you little Harvard turd. Lootz is all right, so he's walking out of here with everything he's got coming to him. If you so much as touch one fucking hair on his fucking head, I'm gonna fucking wallpaper this fucking bathroom with your fucking ass, do you understand me? Muted tones, isn't that what you said, huh? Huh? I can't hear you. Wait, wait a minute. There it is. Blended in, at a subsonic level, like some kind of mantra: "Pain, pain, pain."
"Not a speck of light is showing so the danger must be growing.
Are the fires of hell aglowing? Is the grizzly reaper mowing?
The danger must be growing for the rowers keep on rowing and they're certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing!!!"
-?
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.