There's No Point in Complaining, Unless You Make it Artistic or Funny.
- Screw you, hippie bitch.
- Formula for Art Film: Imagery of war intertwined with imagery of sex + Presidents + A lot of elevated, albeit repetitive prose + Religious characters interacting with their enemies in unison + Say 'sperm,' 'rape,' and 'incest' a lot in reference to the imagery on screen + Stock footage = Art film.
- If you don't like it, you can just git ow'd. We don't want you here anyway. You're only disgusted because of the world you could never, ever fucking have.
And that's suffering. I thought you were above that.
Jesus. . . 1990? Damn!
- I asked my dad where Round Swamp Rd. is located. He told me with a smirk on his face. I drove up to the gates, overcome with a sudden stroke of familiarity. I go through with my interview, and everything is glowing. I come home, announcing the familiar stroke, only to be told I was once kicked out of that very camp fifteen years ago.
In three days, I cracked a hockey stick over a kid's head, pulled a kid under in the pool, and kicked a soccer ball into a kid's face. Now, I remember pulling the kid under and the soccer ball (which I contend being an accident, lacking the coordination it would require to pull off such an attack), but I do not remember the hockey stick. I do remember waiting for my dad in a barn, and one of the counselors with me showing that they can flip their eye-lids inside out. It was, ah two years later when I discovered I could do the same.
Let's pray I gain employment there. Then I can have the summer I didn't have, but will gladly be paid for.
- And I'll crack a hockey stick over a camper's head. Just for kicks.
Yeah. I can't imagine me being violent either. But it's true. I was a prime candidate for Ritalin in my day. But I would be able to take it -- not become a whiny bastard, claiming the lack of whatever 'normalcy' to their lives. Not us Island kids. We take shit, dish it out, and get on with life.
Fuck you, America. Long Island doesn't need you. And we're taking the city with us.
- Want to piss off your parents? Buy real estate in imaginary places.
And show interest in the arts. Beyond popsicle sticks.
- I love you with all my heart, and no matter what.
[You best be watching the season finale tonight. It's the end of the 17th, the verge of the 18th, and the movie next year. And so tonight is the night you should pray they go for 20. Heck, if you're going to make 18 seasons of a show, you may as well shoot for 20. And after all these years, the only complaints I have are the changes in voices, and the move to go to computer animation. ANYWAY:
Marge writes a romance novel, in which Homer is clearly the basis for the brutish husband. Lisa and Bart talk about the ramifications it would have on the family.]
Lisa: "Dad will be really upset when he reads that book."
Bart: "He'll never read it!"
Lisa: "What if they make a movie out of it?"
Bart: "He'll never see it."
Lisa: "What if they make a parody of it on Mad TV?"
Bart: "We're doomed!"
- Formula for Art Film: Imagery of war intertwined with imagery of sex + Presidents + A lot of elevated, albeit repetitive prose + Religious characters interacting with their enemies in unison + Say 'sperm,' 'rape,' and 'incest' a lot in reference to the imagery on screen + Stock footage = Art film.
- If you don't like it, you can just git ow'd. We don't want you here anyway. You're only disgusted because of the world you could never, ever fucking have.
And that's suffering. I thought you were above that.
Jesus. . . 1990? Damn!
- I asked my dad where Round Swamp Rd. is located. He told me with a smirk on his face. I drove up to the gates, overcome with a sudden stroke of familiarity. I go through with my interview, and everything is glowing. I come home, announcing the familiar stroke, only to be told I was once kicked out of that very camp fifteen years ago.
In three days, I cracked a hockey stick over a kid's head, pulled a kid under in the pool, and kicked a soccer ball into a kid's face. Now, I remember pulling the kid under and the soccer ball (which I contend being an accident, lacking the coordination it would require to pull off such an attack), but I do not remember the hockey stick. I do remember waiting for my dad in a barn, and one of the counselors with me showing that they can flip their eye-lids inside out. It was, ah two years later when I discovered I could do the same.
Let's pray I gain employment there. Then I can have the summer I didn't have, but will gladly be paid for.
- And I'll crack a hockey stick over a camper's head. Just for kicks.
Yeah. I can't imagine me being violent either. But it's true. I was a prime candidate for Ritalin in my day. But I would be able to take it -- not become a whiny bastard, claiming the lack of whatever 'normalcy' to their lives. Not us Island kids. We take shit, dish it out, and get on with life.
Fuck you, America. Long Island doesn't need you. And we're taking the city with us.
- Want to piss off your parents? Buy real estate in imaginary places.
And show interest in the arts. Beyond popsicle sticks.
- I love you with all my heart, and no matter what.
[You best be watching the season finale tonight. It's the end of the 17th, the verge of the 18th, and the movie next year. And so tonight is the night you should pray they go for 20. Heck, if you're going to make 18 seasons of a show, you may as well shoot for 20. And after all these years, the only complaints I have are the changes in voices, and the move to go to computer animation. ANYWAY:
Marge writes a romance novel, in which Homer is clearly the basis for the brutish husband. Lisa and Bart talk about the ramifications it would have on the family.]
Lisa: "Dad will be really upset when he reads that book."
Bart: "He'll never read it!"
Lisa: "What if they make a movie out of it?"
Bart: "He'll never see it."
Lisa: "What if they make a parody of it on Mad TV?"
Bart: "We're doomed!"