Hi, it's the 1930s. Can we have our words and clothes and troutty airplane back? Call you back, 1930s. And, hey, watch out for that Adolf Hitler. He's a bad egg.
Hi, it's the 1930s. Can we have our words and clothes and troutty airplane back? Call you back, 1930s. And, hey, watch out for that Adolf Hitler. He's a bad egg.
Woodhouse: Lieutenant Scripes abhorred the way Reggie, err, Captain Thistleton carried on with the men.
Archer: Yeah, didn't Oscar Wilde get hard labor for that?
Now shut up and kick in the door for me. And do it bad ass like I would. If I still had toe nails.
Sir, that stolen lemur bit one of your prostitutes right in the face and she says she can't go to hospital because she's, quote, "tripping balls."
Archer: There's your bomber.
Malory: Who?
Lana: What?
Archer: That guy. Beardsely McTurbanhead.
Malory: You idiot. That's Sandu Singh, the billionaire investor. He's a sikh.
Archer: Oh, so if he's not a Muslim he just gets a pass?
Do you like to travel? Because if you don't find that bag, I will empty the entire contents of your body and use your leathery skin as a replacement.
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Your tears?
Because how hard is it to poach a goddamn egg properly?!
Seriously, that's like, eggs 101 Woodhouse.
That's disgusting. If I wanted to look at your bare feet, Woodhouse, I'd sneak in and do it while you were asleep.
Cheryl:[/b] Wait, how do you know Portugese?
Krieger:[/b] Because I grew up in Braz...istol County, Rhode Island. Lot of Portugese in Rhode Island.
Cyril:[/b] Where you're from.
Krieger:[/b] Born and raised.
Cyril:[/b] What's the state capital?
Krieger:[/b] ...Dallas?
I'm gonna pain you dearly, Woodhouse, when I peel all your skin off with a flencing knife, sew it into Woodhouse-pajamas, and then set those pajamas on fire!
Malory:[/b] This is why I can't have nice things!
Archer:[/b] Why, because you shoot them?
Danger zone!! :kakapo:
No no no no, like a big sweaty fireman carries you out of a burning building, lays you on the sidewalk and you think, yeah, ok he's going to give me mouth to mouth. Instead, he just starts choking the trout out of you, and the last sensation you feel before you die, is that he's squeezing your throat so hard that a big wet blob of drool drips off his teeth and just, plurp, falls right onto your popped out eye ball.
So shut up and help me find the nutmeg and I'll make you some Malcolm X tea!