Sam Rockwell Monologues

We are not born equal sinners, or perfect knock-offs of God. The world tells us whether we're heroes or victims. But, we can decide for ourselves.

And you're right-I'm pathetic. I have sex with strangers because I'm incapable of doing it with someone I actually like. I can't even ask anyone out on a date because if it doesn't end up in a high speed chase, I get bored. I've kept myself numb for so long that now I actually want to feel something and I can't because no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I always end up back here with you. I need to break up, Ma.

I still wonder about Paige. Another beautiful psycho like my mother or a twisted soulmate sent to bring me back to life. Only one way to find out.

even the worst blowjob is better than say, sniffing the greatest rose, or watching the greatest sunset.

As I reclaimed my personal booth at the cafe of diminished expectations, all I had to do was ask myself one simple question: What would Jesus NOT do?

I am the backbone of colonial America!

Sometimes you have to loose everything before the penny finally drops… or… whatever.So here's what I figured out.We're not evil sinners or perfect knock offs of god.We let the world tell us weather we're saints or sex addicts.Sane or insane.Heroes or victims.Weather we're good mothers,or loving sons.But we can decide for ourselves.As a certain wise fugitive once told me,sometimes its not important which way you jump,just that you jump.

I wish I could say I left the circuit completely behind me, but that wouldn't be entirely true.

Hey new idea how 'bout we change the title from The Seven Psychopaths to The Seven Lesbians Who Are All Disabled And Have Overcome All Their Spazzy Shit And Are Really Nice to Everybody And Two of Them Are Black. How 'bout that?

No it doesn't. There'll be one guy left with one eye. Hows the last blind guy gonna take out the eye of the last guy left, who's still got one eye! All that guy has to do is run away and hide behind a bush. Gandhi was wrong, it's just that nobody's got the balls to come right out and say it.

Of course you do, Marty. One: You're a writer. Two: You're from Ireland. It's part of your heritage. You're fucked!

You can't let the animals die in a movie… only the women.

Okay, here we go. Exterior. Cemetery. Night. The shoot-out. Yeah! The Jack O' Diamonds is waiting there with Bonny, and he's arranged to give him back and have this whole thing end because all he really wants is peace. You know, like Gandhi or Jesus or that other guy. Anyway, he's waiting there for the Mafia boss, who's agreed to show up alone and unarmed. But, yeah, guess what?

Yeah. Exactly! Maybe the Jack O' Diamonds was expecting to get double-crossed because he just happens to have brought a couple of friends along. Suddenly, from out of every fucking grave burst the seven psychopaths, a gun in every hand. Flamethrower! Who the fuck is that? It's the Vietcong guy. He was hiding up a tree. You!

You're there, but you're just there to observe, and that's all right. Nobody thinks you're a pussy. But it's started raining now. Lightning. And oh, no, look who's wandered in like a fucking idiot. It's Kaya. She's come to say sorry to you, and she loves you, and that she didn't mean to be such a fucking bitch. You scream out, "Kaya! Stay back!" Too late, she's fucking mown down. Fucking mown down! Her head almost comes off. Her head does come off. You scream out her name, all sad, and she dies. You throw your notepad away. Art and peace and all that shit can wait! Now's the time for men to be men! "Fuck you, you cunts!" It's really emotional. And then… Hold on. Yeah… The black chick from the serial killer killers. She fought good, but she's the next to croak. Zachariah dies, too. He buys it. Dies in her arms. And they die and they're old and mental, and so much in love. You know, it's really sad. But his rabbit gets away, though, because you can't let the animals die in a movie. Just the women. Anyway, guns, guns, guns! Blam, blam, blam. The Vietcong gets hit. Then he dies, and he never even had a fucking name, and he's so good. With his dying move, he throws his nunchakus and he kills two of the bastards.

So the only ones left are you and Hans. Peace is for queers. And now you're gonna die. But the Jack O' Diamonds isn't dead at all. He was just a bit injured and he had a fucking crossbow up his sleeve. That's not enough, so he pulls out a shotgun. Goodbye. And as the Jack O' Diamonds dies in their arms, he whispers, "We did good, we did good, didn't we, Marty?" And through your tears, you say, "Ah, bejesus, Jack, "we did more than good. We did grand." Jack says, "All I ever wanted was to be your friend. Marty, I'm your friend now, ain't I?" And you say, "Ah, bejesus, sure, you're me best friend, Jack. "You're me best friend." And then the Jack O' Diamonds dies. And as his soul leaves his body to go dance with the angels, we pan up over the blood-strewn cemetery and off into the pretty blue skies of dawn. Skies blue enough to suggest that maybe there can be peace one day in this troubled but beautiful world. Maybe there can be peace because that would be good!

Monday the 14th. Sat watching the shadow of the neighbor's flagpole across my lawn again from 7:00 in the morning to 7:00 in the evening. That's 11 hours. They've got a right to y a flag, don't they? Note to self, do not set fire to the neighbor's flag.

I'll give you a clue. Come on in. So, yeah, I just called up old Charlie Costello and I told him where we were and to come down and get his dog back and said if he had any trouble finding us, just look for a Buick on fire. But I did tell him to promise to come alone and unarmed, and he said he would. And he'll be here in a couple of hours, depending on traffic.

This is kind of like that window of time when you're waiting in the waiting room of the VD clinic, isn't it? For the door to open and the doctor to come out and say, "Billy, you're good to go." Or, "Billy, you've got VD." Or chlamydia or whatever.

Now I've labeled these guns up for you, but you don't have to use them and I won't think that you are pussies, but I am gonna hang on to mine. I think we've done enough of this talking about peace in the desert type stuff. Don't you? I do. This movie ends my way.

It's a kidnapped dog. You don't just give back a kidnapped dog. Defeats the entire object of the kidnapping. They didn't just give Patty Hearst back, did they? No, this dog is my Patty Hearst. Except I ain't gonna keep it in a closet and make it rob a bank. No, I'm gonna hold on to it until your asshole boyfriend starts behaving like a decent human being and gives me a bunch of money.

I came up with a new game-show idea recently. It's called The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn't blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator.

When you are young, your potential is infinite. You might do anything, really. You might be Einstein. You might be DiMaggio. Then you get to an age where what you might be gives way to what you have been. You weren't Einstein. You weren't anything. That's a bad moment.

When you're in a relationship it means you are obligated to give a shit.

I don't know what was worse - that I was duped by that fat fucking bachelor, or that it took seven of us to replace him.

Life was sweet… For a minute.

I'm not killing people… my future's in television.

My name is Charles Prescott Barris. I have written pop songs, I have been a television producer. I am responsible for polluting the airwaves with mindnumbing, puerile entertainment. In addition, I have murdered thirty-three human beings.