Jeremy Piven Monologues

You're looking at me like, like… I just asked you the fucking square root of something.

Cinnamon roll? the cinnamon, the roll of the cinnamon. That looks like jizz... ya Eastern European jizz, that looks like some fuckhead shot his load on a 12000 dollar calf's skin jacket. The twist? Its my 12000 dollar calf's skin jacket. So ya got the semon, ok you got the human ejaculate

thats been allowed to soak in for like seven hours alright. Work its way into the fabric fuckin fibers...

...To what? Incinerate? Hugo there isn't a fuckin laundry detergent or dry cleaning product known to man that will get that clean. Some shit, suffice it to say, just don't wash out.

What do you see right now? You see exactly, and only what I choose to show you. That is illusion Ivy, that is the lie that I tell your eyes, makin' the magic happen, in the moment, in that split second... but seeing behind this motherfucker and knowing... that it's all bullshit.

But I can shape it, I can shift it, I can make it as real as this room. That's why i'm valuable here Ivy and that is why you are not.

No, I tell you something. You know what? Listen to me. Listen. The deal is off in five minutes unless they give us something.

Bullshit! It isn't! I am not... I don't know how to say it any fucking louder. I am not giving up my boys. All right. End of fucking song.

No. I don't have to do shit, which includes cooperating with these fuckers, until I get what I want! Listen to men. If we have to give them someone, give them Hugo, all right? I can take that, because he needs that regimented prison shit that they'll give him.

It's bigger than that. They want everybody. Ivy, Beanie, Hugo, the works.

This is not a fucking swap meet, all right Morrie? I'm not giving up my boys and you fucking know that. I gave you Sparazza. I'm gonna give them Sparazza and the west-coast syndicate gift-wrapped. Get it fucking done!

These flowers are wilted, I need you to call the florist.

You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: "Did he have passion?".

Jonathan Trager, prominent television producer for ESPN, died last night from complications of losing his soul mate and his fiancee. He was 35 years old. Soft-spoken and obsessive, Trager never looked the part of a hopeless romantic. But, in the final days of his life, he revealed an unknown side of his psyche. This hidden quasi-Jungian persona surfaced during the Agatha Christie-like pursuit of his long reputed soul mate, a woman whom he only spent a few precious hours with. Sadly, the protracted search ended late Saturday night in complete and utter failure. Yet even in certain defeat, the courageous Trager secretly clung to the belief that life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. Uh-uh. But rather, its a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan. Asked about the loss of his dear friend, Dean Kansky, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author and executive editor of the New York Times, described Jonathan as a changed man in the last days of his life. "Things were clearer for him," Kansky noted. Ultimately Jonathan concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call "fatum", what we currently refer to as destiny.

Do you remember the philosopher Epictetus? You remember what he said? He said, "If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid."

Maybe we're lying here because you don't wanna be standing somewhere else.

I'm telling you right now British women do not age well. Eight years ago she was a luscious treat, you know, she probably looked like, you know, Baby Spice, now she could look like...

Kids your age. Pimple-faced college drop outs who have made unhealthy sums of money forming internet companies that create no concrete products, provide no viable services, and still manage to generate profits for all of its lazy day-trading son-of-a bitch shareholders. Meanwhile, as a tortured member of the disenfranchised proletariat, you find some altruistic need to protect these digital plantation-owners?

I hate to break up a good thing, but we have half a dozen strippers waiting for us, we're late.

No, I actually mean strippers.

Contrary to popular New York myth the Times is not omniscient.

They should make pills for this stuff.