Tell me if I’m way off, Buddy. You were a stockbroker. Maybe a different wife, maybe kids. You stack your paper, but you say shit like “work hard, play harder.” But you play a little too hard. You rack up debt. The type of debt that’d make a white man blush. Maybe you get into a little trouble. Maybe you get your hand caught in the corporate cookie jar. Maybe you leave and run off to the desert. Maybe with your favourite lap dancer in tow. Maybe you disappear into a world consisting of three things: money, sex, drugs, and action.
Queen, huh? Streisand, now Queen. The fuck? What y’all gonna do? Y’all gonna belt out show tunes on the way to the job?
You’re a good driver. You’re a bad liar, though. In this business, the moment you catch feelings… is the moment you catch a bullet.
Those pigs are in hog heaven. The only way they can ID us is with a Ouija board or some shit.
Darling, do I look like I know a fucking thing about Barbra fucking Streisand?
Yeah. Watch your mouth.
