“Quit smoking? This country’s goin’ down the shitter faster than Paul Newman's cancer spread in a race car. My plan? I’m movin’ to flavor country. Don’t tell my wife.”
His mom teaches high school drama uptown.
It’s hard to say whether this guy is that upset, or he’s a criminal that doesn’t want his face shown on TV.
You know the stock market’s fucked when crowds of spectators start gathering outside, in case some sort of visible, physical event might happen.
Future quote: “Yeah, I used one of these in my last job. No, it didn’t have a button for spinach dip or hot wings, but it was basically the same idea.”
“Honey, I want you to gather all your things, get the kids, and load up the car—then light it all on fire. No! You listen to me, honey! I know what I’m talking about! Now!”