“This party is lame.”
Jacques says this statement to no one in particular, his eyes remaining focused on the clock above the Rembrandt painting hung upon the wall, musing over the elegance of the print, which is without a doubt an authentic original, and the fact it had been hung so haphazardly upon the wall without so much as a single protective layering seemed an atrocious affront to the art itself, which resonated a certain sort of dread inside him. He turns from the painting then, catching the eyes of two nameless guests of the party. The two men both avert their eyes so as to avoid contact with his.
There was no denying it; he stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd. Maybe it was his all-black-outfit consisting of jeans, a black t-shirt, a black goatee, and a shaved head… or maybe it was his general demeanour. Where does one begin and the other end? A person’s perception of themselves versus the way they present themselves? Was one a product of the other? It was hard to say.
The only definitive thing Jacques could say had already been said; the party was a lame one. He was only here because his sister had insisted he come. She was married to a politician, and most of the people here were at least a decade older than Jacques. But that was all well and good, considering Jacques had drank the last of his vodka late last night as he went about his nightly ritual of battling sleep (and the dreams which accompanied it), and he was already late on his rent for that month so, the fact he could get drunk for free here had been a deciding factor in his presence.
“Ahem!”
Everyone’s head swirls at the sound of a cough from somewhere within the lavish living room overlooking the lake.
“Don’t worry,” a woman’s voice calls out, “he’s just a smoker!”
Speckled spots of laughter ripple through the crowd, the lingering trauma of the pandemic clearly still fresh upon the tip of their cerebellums.
Jacques is accosted then by a short blond girl who introduces herself as Beatrice, her outstretched hand looking much like a broken twig to him.
“What brings you here?” she asks, her eyebrows emphasizing the fact that the ‘you’ is italicized.
“The unfortunate condition of life,” he says, sighing and sipping from his drink.
“What’s this?” Beatrice asks, leaning to get a closer look at the block of text tattooed on the inside of Jacques collarbone, which reads GODISNOWHERE.
“God is now here?” she reads the words out loud, musing over them with a quizzical look on her face.
“That’s… a nice thought.”
“Is it?” Jacques says, sighing. He didn’t have to the strength or conviction left in him to bother pointing out that the tattoo could also be read ‘God is nowhere.’
It was all too much for him; the way their eyes hung on lingering a little too long, and how they leaned in close to whisper in each other’s ears, talking of life’s tiny trivialities from safe on high in their golden nests. Suddenly, it was hard for him to take in breath, his lungs rejecting the savage air with utter disdain. This place is toxic. He felt as if his skin was been scorched, the temperature rising from within.
He proceeds to shuffle towards the kitchen where countless liquor bottles line the counter beside the sink. He pours himself a stiff rye and coke. As he takes his first sip from the drink, brushing his bangs from his eyes, a couple enters the kitchen and makes their way for the makeshift bar beside the sink. They were closer to Jacques in age, both of them dressed up in expensive designer clothes for which Jacques had no reference. Words like Armani, Calvin Klein, and Gucci flitter through his head like the wings of a fly; a mere nuisance.
"What kind of sauce do you think would go best if you had to eat a person?"
"BBQ sauce for sure," the woman says, her dark hair shimmering in the kitchen light. Her lips were painted a dark shade of red; all crimson in the dim light.
"Not apple sauce?" the fellow says, his eyes narrowing intently.
"No, of course not!” she scoffs. “Too sweet. It would have to be a spicy BBQ sauce, and you'd want to cook it crispy, you know, since humans have a lot of fat - generally, at least around here!”
The two share a laugh while Jacques can’t help but overhear.
"I would never eat a person," he interjects, taking a long pull from his drink while the two unknown faces stare at him in momentary disbelief. "They're fucking disgusting."
"Chill out man," the guy says, giving him the once over, his eyes trailing over him.
"Yeah, it was just like... a totally hypothetical conversation," the brunette woman with drawn-on eyebrows adds.
"Well, I still wouldn't eat a human,” Jacques shrugs, “too much toxicity."
The couple move uneasily past him, the woman shaking her head. Jacques rolls his eyes and moves the other way towards the multi-leveled deck overlooking the lake.
"There you are!" his sister cries out, appearing in the hallway of the kitchen before he can make his escape.
She comes at him in a barrage of curled hair and silk-smooth arms, wrapping herself around him in a drippy hug. "Isn't this just the best?" She is wearing a silver dress which shimmers in the light.
"It's pretty great," he says, looking past her at the clock hung from the wall. "What are we celebrating again?"
"Oh Jacques," Marissa laughs, slapping him on the chest. "You have such a wicked sense of humour."
"I honestly have no idea what this party is for," he says again, disinterested.
"You're a riot, little brother. A real rebel without a cause."
He goes to move past her then, sighing as she reaches out and grabs him by the arm. Where are you going? she asks. Out for a smoke, he says.
He makes his way past the throngs of people in the living room, some of them wearing little pointed party hats, all of them laughing far too loudly than Jacques assumed was warranted; there was nothing particularly humorous about anything occurring at this particular moment, in his particular opinion. Just another circle-jerk. An evening of laughter and self-grandeur hidden beneath the guise of whatever trivial banality they were pretending to give a shit about.
Jacques pushes past a group of people and out into the vast expanse of the five-hundred foot second-story deck which had been built during the quarantine, the stain finish fresh and glistening. Outside, the air hits him like a slap in the face - that sour heat of the city melting away across the Muskoka Lake. Lamps carve a path through the darkness down to the water’s edge.
It was still strange seeing all these people clustered together without masks on, at least to Jacques. Everyone else at the party seemed relatively nonplussed by the fact that there were clearly over one hundred people present at his sister's little get-together. Jacques spots his sister's husband, Reginald, entertaining a group of important looking people; mostly older men in expensive suits with customized cufflinks and gold watches. Prostituting himself for votes no doubt, Jacques thinks to himself as he moves in the opposite direction, pulling a battered cigarette pack from out of his pocket and lighting up one of the smokes in an effortless gesture. The smoke hits his lungs and, and for a moment, he feels calm.
"Hey! You're Marissa's brother, right?"
Jacques turns to see a couple approaching him. Both are dressed extravagantly in designer clothing purchased from niche boutiques in Paris, or at least that's what Jacques presumed. The tall man is dressed in a navy blue pin-striped, single-breasted-suit and his assumed wife (or mistress) wore a blood-red dress with a scandalous slit revealing most of her left leg, looking milky white in the silver moonlight.
“How are you tonight?” the woman in the red dress asks, smiling at him. “It’s Jacques, right?”
“It’s nice to be out of the city, I guess.”
“So nice,” she agrees, turning to the tall man. “I was just telling Bertrand that. Isn’t that right sweetie?”
“That’s right, she was,” he nods.
“Fascinating,” Jacques says, only half listening to the words coming out of his own mouth. “Sometimes I feel so suffocated in the city, too many people. Did you know that rats carried the plague back in the dark days, and now, I guess you could say that humans are the rats…”
The sharply dressed man shares a look with his partner.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little… over-dramatic?”
“Funny you say that,” Jacques says to the woman in the red dress, chuckling as he pulls from his cigarette. “I find that most people don’t get dramatic enough.”
“And what is it that you do, Jacques?” Bertrand asks, sipping from his cognac glass and smirking into the silver moonlight.
“I’m a programmer,” he says, disinterested. In that moment, their eyes are all drawn to the full-moon suspended in the velvet black sky, a hollow wind blowing through the trees and causing their leaves to rustle like the sounds of a thousand whispers.
“And what do you program mostly?”
“Computers.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Jacques says, shrugging and gulping from his now empty tumbler. “Hey,” he says, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do either of you know what this party’s for?”
“This party?” the man asks, gesturing with his arms in two big circles.
“Yeah, like… what are we all doing here?”
“Well, I thought that was obvious,” the lady in the red dress says, incredulously.
Jacques looks on, his face wet with anticipation.
“We’re partying,” she says, pausing before giggling to herself, drinking her wine. The red from her lips leaving a stain upon the tip of the crystal-stemmed wine glass.
“Whatever,” Jacques sighs, shaking his head and turning away from them, the sounds of their laughter following him as he moves to the edge of the deck, his eyes drifting past the trees and out into the water below.
His mind drifts along with his eyes, thoughts of Dylan flittering through his consciousness like a snake beneath the water’s surface. There’s a part of him that missed him very much, the way his dirty blond hair seemed to glow in the morning sun… and he wished very much that they could be together. But there was another part of him, perhaps a much greater part, which cursed Dylan for leaving him behind in this world. Often times he would catch himself pontificating on how he wished things had happened in reverse; that he would have been the one to get sick, and Dylan would have had to watch him die a slow and irrelevant death, his lungs gradually filling with liquid that the virus caused, leaving his last breathes sounding like the engine of an old lawnmower.
A glass shatters somewhere behind him upon the deck, startling Jacques from his lovesick trance.
“Opa!” Someone from inside the house yells, the sounds of laughter swelling briefly before the gentle hum of a dozen conversations resumes.
“There he is!” his sister croons, walking over towards Jacques with a handful of guests in tow; a barrage of Armani suits and diamond jewelry.
“Leave me alone,” he sighs.
“Oh, why are you always such a party pooper?” she whines, smacking his arm. A few of the people behind her are whispering behind cuffed hands. “Aren’t you happy to be here?”
“No one even knows what this party’s for.”
“You’re missing the point,” his sister says, rolling her eyes. “Have you been down to the water yet? You really ought to go down. It’s so beautiful down there.”
“Maybe I will,” Jacques says, surveying the illuminated path. “There’s a significantly less presence of humans down there.”
“My brother,” his sister smiles, “the constant cynic.”
He rolls his eyes at her before turning and descending the stairs. The sound of his footfalls easily drowned out by the party, and he flicks his cigarette butt into the gravel pathway. He approaches the water’s edge with his hands in his pockets, casually kicking at orphan stones as he walks. He thinks then of all that happened in the last year, all that he had lost, and part of it still left a sour feeling in his stomach, yet his apathy had effectively muted the initial rage and betrayal he felt… but that was the problem. He didn’t know who exactly had betrayed him…
Unbeknownst to Jacques, a large chunk of earth had been removed earlier that week when Reginald had had the dock replaced, and when Jacques’ foot came down expecting to find earth, it instead found two feet of air, sending him tumbling head-first into the dark-deep water, the sound of his splash barely audible over the sound of the music playing from the deck above.
Jacques’ sister turns to one of the guests then, clinking glasses with him. "I love champagne," she says.
"I hear you made out like a bandit on Pfizer,” the man replies.
"We did well," she nods. "Thus, the champagne."
Help, please, someone help me! I can't swim!
Jacques’ sister turns to face the crowd then, clinking the side of her glass with a caviar spoon. She waits patiently until everyone at the party has quieted, all of their eyes transfixed upon her and her dazzling silver dress.
"We are gathered here tonight to celebrate life itself...”
Please, please! I can't swim... the water is too deep!
Sounds of soft applause ripple through the crowd.
"...because life, as we learned over the past year, is something we all take for granted. It’s not until we’re staring death in the face, or finding death in the face of our loved ones, that we realize just how lucky we truly are…”
Can anyone hear me, please? Help me! I can’t swim!
"...which is why we should party hard tonight!"
"Yeah!" the crowd cheers in unison, raising their glasses to one another.
"Help!" Jacques cries, reaching towards the sky with his hands, his head partly submerged in the black water.
"So let us toast our amazing fortunes and impeccable taste in company," she pauses then to allow for the speckled laughter to fade, "and on a more serious note... let us remember all those who died last year in the wake of such an awful virus. Truly, the world has changed so much since it all began..."
Pl-weee---uhhh-ggrrrrr-ease!
"Hurrah!"
Hel-argagagargagragr-llllllllppppppp...
And as Jacques’ head slowly disappears into the lake, his last thoughts revolving around his mother as the water fills his lungs, most of the partiers move back inside where there was warmth and food, his sister poking her head out briefly and looking around before returning inside as well, closing the sliding glass door with a hollow thud that travels over the rippling water which was now a grave for the forgotten.
Some of the guests linger on the deck a while longer, smoking cigars and sipping their flutes of champagne, talking casually of relevant recent events; another dictator overthrown in some middle-eastern country, another president elected in the U.S., more riots in the streets in the Southern States, a celebrity died and rumors are swirling he overdosed - while more sinister speculations suggest he was actually murdered... another conspiracy cover-up job...
THE END.

A lovely effect of the serious, much-needed changes happening in food media is that they have brought many new voices to the surface. After reading a powerful essay in Food & Wine by Amethyst Ganaway about the ongoing role of food as a tool of resistance in the Black community — whether through smuggling seeds, stealing provisions from plantation owners, gardening or feeding protesters — I started following her on social media, only to realize that she’s Gullah Geechee, a direct descendant of people enslaved on the lower Atlantic coast.
“One of the most important things about the Gullah Geechee tradition,” Ganaway explained, when I called to learn more about her culinary heritage, “is that, unlike other parts of the African diaspora, we were able to maintain our direct ties to West Africa — we use the same words and ingredients, and we even have similar spiritual traditions.” Raised largely by her grandmother in North Charleston, S.C., Ganaway is a cook and writer on a personal journey to learn more about her family history by connecting more deeply with the culinary traditions in which her ancestors’ recipes are rooted.
When I asked her to share a meaningful family recipe with me, she didn’t hesitate: okra soup, a simple yet underappreciated Gullah Geechee specialty. “We always had a house full of people,” she said, “and it’s one of those things, where if you’ve got a pot of rice and a big pot of okra soup, you’re really going to eat well for the next couple of days.” Okra soup is not necessarily Louisiana-style gumbo, thick with roux and rich with sausage and shrimp. Rather, it’s a simple, wholesome dish that, like the best Gullah Geechee cooking, emphasizes the freshness of its ingredients — the hardest part of the recipe is impatiently waiting for the broth to cook while it fills your house with the heavenly aromas of smoke and meat.
A few days after I spoke with Ganaway, I realized as I scanned the ingredient list that every single item reflected the history of not only Ganaway’s family but Gullah Geechee folks in general, beginning with the smoked turkey at the base of her fragrant broth. I was surprised that she used poultry, rather than ham hock, until she explained that her grandmother joined the Nation of Islam while living in New York in the 1970s. “Come to find out there’s a very strong West African and Sufi presence in the Lowcountry,” Ganaway said, referring to the geographic and cultural region along South Carolina’s coast that includes the Sea Islands. “When my grandmother started attending a Sufi mosque that was predominantly West African, I started to recognize all of the similarities in our foods.”The West African influence continues with rice, which Ganaway insisted the Gullah Geechee “always, always, always” eat with okra soup. “It’s important to note that the enslaved people from West Africa were specifically brought to the Lowcountry because of their knowledge of how to grow rice.” The rice grains themselves traveled the Middle Passage along with the kidnapped West Africans. Called nkru-ma in Ghanaian Twi, the soup’s eponymous okra, too, came from Africa on those ships.The key to okra soup is its consistency — it shouldn’t be too thin — and purists discourage the use of added starch to thicken the soup. As Ganaway advised, “The okra will naturally thicken the broth, and the fresher it is, the better it’ll do the job.” And while neither Ganaway nor I have an aversion to okra’s mucilaginous quality (in fact, we both love it), it doesn’t come much into play in this soup, because the vegetable is cooked for only about 10 minutes, leaving it tender but not slimy, while the pod’s caviar-like seeds add both protein and a textural pop with every bite.
“For okra soup, the main thing is you have okra and tomatoes — otherwise do what you want,” Ganaway told me. But unlike many recipes, this one uses the entire tomato. As a cook, I’ve always been flummoxed to see people discarding tomato seeds and their surrounding jelly and call it fine cooking when anyone who has taken the time to carefully taste the fruit knows that they’re actually the most flavorful parts — up to six times as rich in the compounds that contribute to umami as other parts of the fruit. Throwing the flavor away for some arbitrary aesthetic reason strikes me as absurd, and in this soup the tomato’s seeds are essential. The tomato arrived in the American South by way of Mexico — it was native to Peru — where it was domesticated sometime in the 17th century, and it became fundamental to Lowcountry cooking. And the butter beans and corn that Ganaway stirs into the soup right at the end are also not native to the region; they came from Peru and Mexico and traveled north, where Native Americans introduced the ingredients to Gullah Geechee cooks. I’ve spent my cooking career obsessed with sourcing ingredients, but Ganaway inspired me to look much further back, to not stop at the farm or the market but to trace the actual origin of each ingredient. At least four continents, five spiritual traditions and three races were represented in this dish.
At home, when the soup was finished, I looked at the constellation of vegetables, beans and shredded meat in my bowl. Between spoonfuls, the okra seeds popped in my mouth, and I ate rice to soothe the burn of hot sauce at the back of my throat. “We can’t have the conversation about what American food is without talking about the little communities that were built up along the coast of our country because of the slave trade,” Ganaway told me. By necessity, Gullah Geechee cooking refers to our nation’s history and acknowledges even the ugliest parts — the genocide, the enslavement, the colonization — and still manages to nourish. While we might think of burgers and apple pie as our national culinary emblems, this okra soup makes me wonder if it isn’t worth reconsidering what makes a dish uniquely American.

BEGINNING:
[Babish is talking to the camera so his entire upper half is visible]
“Hey guys welcome back to Binging With Babish where today we are making, toast.”
“Toast can be as simple as well... toasting it and putting on some pb&j to marinading it, putting sauces on it, frying it with butter, or whatever the hell people do in New York penthouses do when they’re out of caviar.”
IN THE KITCHEN:
[No head visible. Camera is now in cooking view phase]
“First, we’re gonna need some bread. Now, nobody likes those plain old name brand bread that suck up more than enough amounts of bacteria after 5 weeks, so we are using some good old baker’s loaf”
[Babish procceds to hold the bread held in a plastic wrap to the camera. No logos, just some good old bread]
“America’s Test Kitchen has done recent and many studies to show that authentic bakery loaves work incredibly well and just much more incredible if used correctly.”
[Jump cut shot to a toaster and already cut loaves of bread]
“Now what we had done is eyeball the bread, so it would fit nicely in the two slots of the toaster. I suggest a good toaster that evenly cooks the toast, unlike other $60 toasters that literally have one corner of the bread darkened to hell while the other corner is as dry as well.. dry toast.”
“Set your toaster to about 3/5’s of it’s maximum cook temperature. I suggest putting your toast in there for about 1-2 1/2 minutes depending on your toaster strength. Courtesy of Adam Raguesa, I suggest heating up your plate so the eating experience will just be more better”
[Babish proceeds to put a thumbs up just as the toast finishes cooking]
“Now, I didn’t put anything on this toast, and oh boy it tastes basic. This is the time we like to put our spin on our recipe. Now, all we need is some butter, Nashville chicken, macaroni and cheese, and some lemon for this part of the recreation.”
“Set your cast iron skillet to about 345 degrees f. Put some butter and spread it across the pan. Put the toast on the skillet for about two minutes, then flipping over for another two minutes.”
“Whilst toasting, you should shread your chicken to a not so pulled pork consistency but just the edge until it feels like it wasn’t hand pulled. “
“Plate your toast on a well heated pan, squeeze 1/4 of a lemon onto the toast then adding some of the shredded chicken. After that, plate some of the mac and cheese so it might as well be some perfect lettuce on top of our chicken.”
“And that my friends, is Nashville Toast.”
And now a word from our sponsor, Water.
Get a free trial of water by using offer code Babish. Water on my personal level, has been great to drink and use. You can put it in a cup and splash it onto boiling oil on a pan to set your house on fire, put out the fire, and drink after you saved your house. Again, use offer code, Babish to have a 1 month free trial of Water.
“Now back to the program, we will make some posh Babish toast. Again, butter up and fry your toast, and put it on a hot plate. Get a healthy spread of fois gras and spread it around your toast. Then, get a heaping spoon of caviar just to make the experience even more legendary. And that my friends, is how you make a goddamn fine ass spread of toast.”
“Now, of course, my friend Gordon Ramsay will be here to have a taste test to see if this fine platter of toast will be enough to satisfy his high expectations.”
“Ah yes, toast. Lets hope you won’t fuck this up or else your entire Youtube career will be in shambles”
[Babish profusely sweats]
“Good... good. Although, it could he pan fried and toasted some more. It’s missing something.”
[Babish then realizes there’s somehow fond in the skillet, no salt on the toast, and the bread hasn’t had a cross section]
[Gordon proceeds to set on fire, staring directly into Babish’s eyes]
“Why the fuck haven’t you cleaned your goddamn station. Also, where is the salt on this toast. It’s supposed to feel like the Red Sea not some wholesome un-salt worthy 2 year old child.”
[Gordon proceeds to grow in fire in strength while Babish reveals Wolverine like claws, only to be whisks.]
Both Gordon and Babish duke it out.
Gordon grabs a frying pan, spills it on Babish.
It does nothing, Babish’s outer salt covered shell immediantly disintegrates outer sources of firepower.
Babish proceeds to punch Gordon in the eyes, making him have Hot Ones flashbacks.
“FUCKING HELL. THAT CHICKEN WAS WAY TOO UNDER-SEASONED AND TASTED LIKE SHITE.”
Babish proceeds to shed the outer salt layer, only for it to lay on the ground like spilled Water, the sponsor for our video.
Gordon proceeds to stomp on the salt, creating bomb like explosions on the floor with his fire.
Babish is forced to flee, while Gordon chases him
Babish then calls for some help in a Infinity War End Credit-esque fashion.
Suddenly, Gordon is bombarded by a bunch of eggs. HowToBasic proceeds to drop nuclear sunny side warheads while Gordon gets angrier.
Then, Joshua Weissman begins to harness all of this explosion and power to create multiple sourdough starters which start to eat at Gordon.
Adam Ragusea comes out of nowhere, seasoning the road before Gordon falls onto it, burning him in the process.
Gordon then proceeds to absorb the heat and sourdough, to unleash his final form, “BEEFIUS WELLINGAWKTON”
Babish and the rest of the crew are shocked as Gordon flood the streets with lamb sauce, causing everything to set on fire while making both cars and people stuck. HowTo is stuck in the crossfire, only to get eaten by Gordon.
Adam tries shooting a barrage of hot plates, to no avail. Gordon eats them up and shoots if back at him, damaging Adam’s glasses and his organs.
Joshua starts making a But Better, trying to make a mech so Babish will be able to beat Gordon.
Joshua succeeds, only to get crushed by Gordon.
Babish screams, but then gets inside of the mech.
The two duke it out
Babish mixes and hits Gordons arm with his whisk robot arms, which Gordon melts.
Babish then released a 20 year old stench of shrimp, making Gordon gag
Babish then jumps and kicks Gordon a number of times. Gordon is on edge almost about to go into the sea.
Then, Gordon uses all of his power to put the Beef Wellington crust into his arm, hitting Babish, destorying his whisk exoskeleton.
“You have no power anymore Babish. I have the power to crush you in just one swipe.”
Gordon then jumps, which to Babish accepts his fate.
Suddenly, Gordon is flung back, his foot being stuck to... gum?
No...
It’s Joshua Weissman!
He’s stuck onto Gordon’s foot!!
Babish then strikes Gordon with his power, Weissman releases the sourdough off Gordons foot. Gordon falls into the ocean, his back facing the sky.
Babish then uses his Cross Section technique to open Gordon up to the salty sea.
“How’s this for the lack of salt?”
Gordon then screams and in a Endgame fashion, turns into salt dust.
Babish recovers Gordon’s body, to find that Adam and HowTo are still alive. All make it back to the kitchen, to find it destroyed and broken.
Babish then asks the rest of the cooking crew one line to which everyone agree’s with.
“Who want’s schwarma?”
-Fanpost by u/FlickyFlames
(I AM IN NO WAY INCITING VIOLENCE AGAINST GORDON OR ANY OTHER COOKING INFLUENCER. THANK YOU FOR READING AND MAKE SURE TO PUT SOME KOSHER SALT ON YOUR DISHES)

From The Halls of Montezuma to the Depths of Outer Space: The Long Deployment (conclusion)
The rear ramp on the gunship shut with a clang just as the torpedoes detonated. The gunship was still in a nose dive to the ground when the concussive force of the blast created a shockwave which knocked the gunship off its terminal dive angle. Warning lights and alarms screamed inside the cockpit, but the rugged little gunship held together, despite the battering she had just taken. With one last heave, Jennifer pulled up on the stick with every ounce of strength that she had left. The gunship shot up, narrowly missing the black, jagged, landscape which seemed to rise up to meet them. Jennifer pulled the stick to the left, attempting to get past the periphery of the blasted black landscape and over to where the land was alive and green and beautiful.
“We’re clear of the anomaly!” Warrant Officer Nasri’s voice boomed into the intercom over the rising pitch of the thrusters. “Is everyone okay back there?”
“We’re a little banged up,” said SSgt Talley into the intercom speaker, looking down and frowning at the wet spot on her armor where Seashell Killary pissed herself. “But we’re fine. The medic is handing out boo-boo band aids and lollypops.”
“Okay,” chucked Nasri. “Where’s Lieutenant Gabriel?”
“Oh, uh, he’s hanging around, ma’am,” said Sgt. Hernandez.
“I see,” said Nasri. “Well, when he’s done farting around, let him know that we have comms with the Galveston City. They’ve got freedom of maneuver and are in orbit waiting to retrieve us. We should be docked in fifteen to twenty mikes.”
Lieutenant Gabriel hung upside down six feet above the deck of the cargo bay, his mag-locks holding him in place. His arms were wrapped tightly around Pfc. Chensi and he looked down at her, surprised to see her crying.
“You okay, Hitchiro?” he said. “Are you hurt?”
Chensi looked up at her platoon leader, wiping a tear from her eyes. “No, sir! I lost my flame-rifle! You know how much those things cost? I’ll never be able to pay for a new one with the shit that the corps is paying me!”
“You saved our asses down there,” said Gabriel. “We’ll buy you a new one!”
Chensi smiled weakly. “I’d rather have a promotion. Maybe a few days to hang out with you and Warrant Officer Nasri in Vegas?”
Lieutenant Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Will someone get this little turd off my hands so that I can get down from here?”
The USS Galveston City remained on station for an additional 48 hours over Willow’s World as the members of 4th Platoon underwent decontamination procedures. In that time, all of the platoons vid-cam footage was sent to the Fleet to be scrutinized and examined extensively by scientists, geologists, biologists, astrophysicists, and the clergy. The opposition politicians also wanted to examine the vid-cam footage as well to see if they could find evidence in which to convict the Marines (and, by association, their Commander-in Chief) of any heinous war crimes real or imaginary. With the USS Galveston City’s sensors functioning normally now that the entity had been weakened and its ‘beam-horn’ (as the Marines called it) was destroyed, the Galveston City was able to peer down into the dead area anomaly. The entity was still alive, alive being a relative term, and still stumbling around within the dead space which it presumably was responsible for creating. Apparently, the horned entity could not leave that area of dead space to set foot on the surrounding lush, living landscape. The prevailing theory was that the entity was not originally of this planet, having arrived sometime in the past and probably buried itself into the ground where it slowly began draining the life energy of its surroundings which, over time, expanded the deadness to over one hundred twenty miles in circumference. In the meantime, the entity had used its weird beam to snag any star ship which came into range and dragged it to its doom on the blasted rock formations below where the entity again fed off the life forces of those it had ensnared, reanimating the corpses whenever they were needed to do its bidding. Basically, it was a giant parasite.
Commander Travis had suggested using one of the Galveston’s tac-nukes on the creature, just in case it had the power to re-grow its beam horn again. But that was quickly shot down by the globo-corporations and their R and D departments who wanted to investigate the numerous wrecks of alien vessels which had been brought down in the dead space. They feared that a tac-nuke might damage the alien vessels which were no doubt holding advanced weapon development secrets that could benefit mankind.
For his part, Lieutenant Gabriel couldn’t care less. After they leave orbit and the K-Hawk gets underway for earth, Willow’s World and everything associated with it would be the USS Ranger’s problem. He was just happy that this deployment was finally over and that he would be returning with his entire platoon safe and intact. Oh, and that the two snot nosed VIPs were also safe and sound also, he guessed. They were both tucked away in Commander Travis’s own crew cabin since the corvette didn’t have an executive VIP suite. Groaning, Gabriel looked down at his data pad. He was sitting in the galley, enjoying a moment of alone time with a nice hot mug of coffee. He hadn’t even finished his report on the Mont Caberu mission and now he had to write a report about this one. Pfc. Chensi strolled up and sat across from him, setting down a tray of cereal on the metal table.
“Man, sir, these fleet guys know how to live,” she said, cutting up a fresh banana and strawberries to put in her cereal. “Maybe I joined the wrong branch?”
“You most definitely did not join the wrong branch, killer,” said Gabriel.
“I know,” said Chensi. “Oh, by the way, your eyebrows are growing in nicely, sir. Maybe you won’t look so hideous by the time we get back.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes up at her. “Is there a reason you’re sitting here picking on my eyebrows, Private?”
Chensi scooped a spoonful of fruit laden cereal into her mouth. “Yes, sir! Are you writing your report on our mission on Willow’s World?”
“I could be,” said Gabriel.
“Are you at the part when I dragged those two idiots… I mean, VIPs… up to the top of the wreckage and flamed all them dead things?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Gabriel, “I’m just getting to that part.”
“Great!” said Chensi. “Because I just wanted to make sure that you spelled the word ‘incinerate’ correctly.”
…
Jennifer Nasri stepped out of the shower, wrapped in one of the thick, soft, luxurious towels which made The Ultra Luxorious Hotel and Casino Complex towels the most stolen towels on the Las Vegas strip. It had been over forty days since they had successfully completed their mission to Willow’s World and three weeks after the USS Kitty Hawk docked at San Diego Orbital Naval Base before she and Samuel could finally start their three week vacation to Vegas. Yes, originally it was two weeks, but Seashell Killary had stunk up the cockpit of Jenn’s gunship again on the way back. Apparently, they only had caviar, sardines, and boiled eggs in that pantry they were trapped in for over a week. So naturally, Sam would have to cough up another week in Vegas. Secretly however, Jenn was hoping that by their third week in Vegas, Sam might get the hint that Jennifer Nasri-Gabriel had a nice ring to it. She walked from the steaming bathroom across to the Ultra Luxorious king sized bed with the thick, comfortable mattress.
Sam was lying in bed, already dressed in a red polo shirt and his favorite well worn faded blue jeans, waiting for Jenn to get out of the shower so that they could partake in what was fast becoming their favorite pastime since returning from over a year out in space: attacking the dinner buffet. Sam had the 74” vid-screen turned on to Galactic News Network. The image on the screen showed Seashell Killary wearing a tight fitting light blue pant suit combination standing together with Hunter Hyding, who was wearing a sharp looking black suit. The couple was on a large stage inside a crowded arena receiving medals, accolades and praise from their party leadership while thousands of people clapped and cheered. Red, white, and blue confetti fell from the rafters as veteran GNN senior reporter Runt Wolftard, the ‘most trusted news anchor in the galaxy’, sat at a desk and gave a glowing story of Seashell Killary and Hunter Hyding’s successful mission to Willow’s World.
“… and after taking a commanding position atop their crashed star cruiser,” Runt continued, “… Hunter Hyding and Seashell Killary rallied the platoon of panic stricken Marines which, ironically, were sent to rescue them. Though the Marines were wracked with fear at the sight of the unnamed danger, Hunter and Seashell used their natural born leadership gifts, undoubtedly passed to them by their parents, and led the Marines on a dangerous mission which successfully averted a tragedy on that planet. And even though the nature of the mission and the nature of the potential tragedy is considered classified,” Runt smiled knowingly into the camera, “some anonymous sources high up in government claimed that the unnamed potential tragedy was caused by none other than President Helania herself! Voters should keep this in mind when the elections roll around. I’m sure that if those thankful Marines were present here today, they would encourage all citizens in the galaxy to vote accordingly since clearly, this was all President Helania’s fault.”
Hunter Hyding was joined by his father on the stage, former Vice President Bunker Hyding and Seashell Killary was joined by her father, Senator William J. Killary as they announced their intention to run as president and vice president to defeat President Helania in the next election by any means necessary.
“Really, Sam?” said Jennifer, removing her towel and using it to dry her hair. “Eight thousand channels on cosmic-cable, one thousand of them porn channels, and this is what you’re watching?”
“It’s on all the channels, Jenn,” shrugged Samuel. “Even the porn ones.” He sighed, as if he had stepped boot deep into a steaming pile of xeno-droppings. “Still though, none of that galactic pomp and circumstance bullshit can compare to the little ceremony we had on the deck of the K-Hawk where we got to promote Sergeant Hernandez to Staff Sergeant and Pfc. Chensi to Lance Corporal. It’s nice, really. Forty-two of us deployed. Forty-two of us returned. Banged up. Probably scared for life. But drunk and happy, just the way we Marines like it.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true,” said Jenn, climbing on the bed and straddling Sam. With an aggravated groan, Jenn grabbed the remote out of Sam’s hand and pointed it at the vid-screen. “Just do me a favor,” she said, pressing the ‘off’ button. “For as long as we’re on earth, turn that GNN shit off!”
Marine Corps Rank Pronunciations
SSgt- Staff Sergeant (read as ‘staff sergeant’)
Sgt- Sergeant (read as ‘sergeant’)
Pvt- Private (read as ‘private’)
Pfc- Private First Class (read as ‘PFC’)
LCpl- Lance Corporal (read as ‘lance corporal’)
Cpl- Corporal (read as ‘corporal’)
1LT- First Lieutenant (read as First Lieutenant or Lieutenant)
4th Platoon, Delta Company
Platoon Leader- 1LT Samuel Gabriel (m)
Medic- LCpl. Chapman (m)
CommSpec- LCpl. Maggas (m)
1st Sqd:
Sqd- Ldr-SSgt. Boyer (m)
Tm Ldr- Sgt. Barlow (m)
Tm Ldr- Cpl. Hatcher (f)
Automatic Rifle Gunner- Pvt. Houser (m)
Asst. Automatic Rifle Gunner- Pvt. Barner (f)
2nd Sqd:
Sqd. Ldr- SSgt. Talley (f)
Tm Ldr- Cpl. Cotto (m)
Tm Ldr – Cpl. Parker (m)
3rd Sqd:
Sqd. Ldr- Sgt. Hernandez (m)
Flame-Rifle Gunner- Pfc. Chensi (f)
Tm Ldr- Sgt. Watson (f)
Tm Ldr- Cpl. Palkovic (m)
Rifleman- LCpl. Mixley
Pilot:
Warrant Officer Nasri
USS Kitty Hawk- assault carrier
USS Ranger- assault carrier
USS Galveston City- patrol corvette
CSNS Sydney Point- colonizer ship
CSNS New Castle- luxury cruiser
CSNS Mont Caberu- science freighter

I stumbled across this one day, and wanted to share it but I couldn’t find it again. I finally found it. I’m a very big fan but I think he is much sexier and much more talented at his current age. He was only 19 here. Of particular delight were his thoughts on favorite place “to make love”...Interview’s words, not mine. I think she is a friend of his based on the writing. He was of course much more immature than now, as time takes care of...See what ya think.
Pillow Lips My Dinner with Gus Van Sant & Mike Pitt - J.T. LeRoy
He had a 5:30 reservation at an exclusive restaurant, Charles Nob Hill. We had arrived together, entering a palatial lobby where we were greeted by the staff, who all look like models from Vanity Fair. The staff of young men and women are dressed in business suits. They smile excitedly at Van Sant, who is dressed relatively casually. They tell him how thrilled they are to have him there, but as they turn to gaze at the rest of his party, their smiles slide like sweaters off hangers onto the floor.
As they take our coats, I can feel them taking inventory: Mike’s jacket is an old coat from the 70s, shredded like limbs that fell into the wood-chopper in Fargo. Mike Pitt does not look like the movie/tv star he is fast becoming. Under his coat he wears the striped t-shirt his character Tommy Gnosis wore in the film version of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which just won awards at Sundance. His t-shirt hangs in razor-blade rips and has practically no back. I look like the Punk Playmate of the Month in my gray corduroys, colorful platform sneakers, two layered t-shirts, orange tint glasses. My long day-glo blue hair is tied Jackie O headband-style with a Dolce & Gabbana pink silk scarf with colorful butterflies on it that Gus Van Sant gave me for Christmas. My roommates Speedie and Astor are with us. At least they dressed up.
The host seats us at a large round table that juts out into the small dining room. Like other posh places I’ve been to, this room has all the liveliness of a morgue, with its dark wood and formal paintings. We compare it to the school Gus filmed for Finding Forrester (in which Mike Pitt had a part). Moneyed older folks are seated at a table behind Mike. I catch their appalled expressions as they look at our table, and we can hear them murmur in snooty hushed tones, "Look at that shirt!" Mike doesn’t notice, the way a street kid doesn’t hear the comments private school kids mutter as they step over his sprawled legs. Gus orders an $85 Australian wine, and a martini. After the wine is poured, Mike sniffs the bouquet and swishes it in his glass unself-consciously while an older gentleman across from him watches him, licking his lips in whetted desire, transfixed at Mike’s boyish beauty. I have a pink cosmo.
Suddenly the staff surrounds our table, one person standing behind each of us. I panic–now they will throw us out. Mike had told me when he was cast on Dawson’s Creek he kept waiting for them to bust him, tell him that he didn’t belong. Even though they didn’t know about his past on the street, he was sure he would be sent back any moment.
The waitstaff takes a collective breath and puts heavy gold spoons in front of us for appetizers, a dish containing an oyster heavily decorated with caviar. The head waiter, a woman, boastfully tells us the origins of the oysters. Mike, not waiting till she is halfway through, bites into it, his face folding into a crumple. "This tastes like snot!" he says loudly. I bite into mine, and it does, so as the staff flees, I gag into my napkin.
Gus playfully chides Mike not to say that. While I keep my head lowered, feeling like poor white trash at the country club, Mike is oblivious to the gawking, both condemnatory and appreciative, around us. I am in awe of how Mike moves, confidently fluid, like a boy on a playing field who knows he’s master of the game and so has special rights. Gus sits on the edge, aware of the comments, a victim of his guest’s lack of propriety, yet simultaneously entertained.
I had first heard about Mike Pitt from Scott Macaulay (producer and editor at the magazine Filmmaker). I was sweatin’ Scott to pass my book Sarah to Gus Van Sant. I had a Hollywood agent who was trying to get me to sign my book over to her and let her sell it to whomever. But my dream director was Gus Van Sant. The agent had sent it to his office and gotten a pat rejection. But one thing my mother taught me was that No can also mean Maybe. My chance came soon. When I was interviewing John Waters for Filmmaker, Scott told me Van Sant was photographing Pitt, this new hot actor who looked like a young Leonardo DiCaprio. I wanted Gus’ attention, too, and felt jealous of anyone else who might be capturing it.
Well, like a dorky dream-come-true tv movie, folks I knew and even people I didn’t passed Gus my book, and we eventually became good friends. He wanted to make Sarah into his next film and took me under his wing for a number of other projects.
But there was still Mike Pitt. Gus and he weren’t involved, but they hung out a lot. And I know how it is on the street when the old boy is trying to get rid of the new boy. Gus gave Mike Sarah. I waited to hear how Mike was going to dis me. "You have to make this film!" Gus told me Mike urged him. Hearing that changed the rules. This isn’t the street, and Mike ain’t trying to keep out the new bitch, and Gus sure ain’t no pimp.
So we drink and eat from a special tasting menu. Even though the dishes are preset, so you’d think they have them ready, they make us wait about 20 minutes for each small dainty taste. Meanwhile, we talk about films, like Hedwig; Mike’s other film, Bully, by Kids director Larry Clark; and My Own Private Idaho, and how amazing River Phoenix was. I am startled to be privy to juicy bits of insider Hollywood gossip.
Mike moves constantly in his chair, playfully aggressive like a dog pulling on a choker collar. Gus and I sit quietly while Mike leans forward to speak with seductive command. We have come to rely on the bread attendant, with his soldierly demeanor, asking us if we care for some bread. Then, if we signify with an auction bidder’s nod, his silver tongs descend and he elegantly appoints a slab to our bread plates. On one of his trips, after one bottle is gone and a second is being worked on, he makes the rounds. When he approaches Mike, he says, "Yeah," glances backwards and, as if doing a breaststroke, reaches into the tray with his hand and snags his own bread swiftly. The bread assistant is so appalled by the Mike Pitt etiquette breach Gus says he thinks the man will faint. I laugh so hard I spray wine out of my nose.
For the rest of the evening, the bread man will not return. When we request bread, a different man serves us, but stands back as if flinging food into a lion’s den.
After more waiting, they bring out some amazing combo of science and culinary arts. But it is too small, and we are too hungry. Speedie, in her thick Cockney, dares Mike to lick his plate–a challenge he gleefully accepts. Gus humorously hangs his head. Mike smiles mischievously at me. I feel my face heat up.
Earlier that evening, when we picked Mike and Gus up, I had sat in the back of the car, next to Mike. Gus and Mike each gave me a gift. Gus gave me a book, neatly wrapped. Mike gave me a bundle enclosed in newsprint. It contained a sexy little white baby doll with green piping and matching panties, an honor bar-size bottle of gin, and a single squashed red rose. I gave Mike a Scottish necklace called a Glasgow Rose. And I gave Gus Fairy Stones that figure in my next book, The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things. Mike kissed me thanks; his lips were soft, like the cliched overstuffed pillows. We drove them around San Francisco (Mike had never been). We drove to the top of Twin Peaks. But all I could think about was our thighs touching and him looking at me all the way to the restaurant.
I escape into the women’s bathroom and put on glossy maroon lipstick. When I come back, everyone comments on how pretty I look. I can only look down after I catch Mike staring at me with his blue-eyed dead stare and it makes me feel like the inside of a Gummi bear. I am unnerved and spill my creamed lobster soup, and scream out of surprise. Trying to right my bowl, I almost knock Gus’ wine on him. Staff surrounds me with long white napkins. I catch a woman, wearing an elaborate bun so tightly pulled back that the ends of her eyes have a vaguely Asian cast, tsking. Again, I am reminded I am an interloper. Gus gives me a warm, reassuring smile. He is the bridge to this world and the soother when soup is spilled, soiling expensive linen.
Mike flees out to smoke and I follow. As we are exiting, he grabs one of the graceful porcelain candles at the host’s station to light his cigarette. The staff members stationed there gasp and lunge for the candle. "It’s cool, just getting a light, man," Mike assures them, like James Dean with the lit cig hanging from his puffy bottom lip.
We run out laughing, feeling released by the wind, the cold freedom of outside, The Street. I had sent Mike a raccoon penis bone (the talisman that is featured prominently in Sarah), and Gus took a picture of him modeling it for my website (www.jtleroy.com). Mike and I bonded over many conference calls with Gus, or just me and him, hanging out talking. I had been nervous to meet Mike, but he knew me from all our conversations. The night before we met, he had said to me in his New York-New Jersey tough accent, like on The Sopranos, that when used in its protective tones feels like the safest place in the world to exist inside of, "Don’t worry, I know, you’re delicate, I know."
We stand by the bushes, where he lights me with his cigarette. It’s chilly, so we move closer. Speedie comes out to join us. She’s carrying Gus’ camera and asks us to snuggle up. Mike puts his arm around me and pulls me in close. She asks Mike to kiss me so she can take pictures of it. Mike leans over, his lips a dizzying mix of smoke and wine. He kisses me, sweetly and tenderly. Afterward, I can’t make eye contact. "You okay?" he leans over to me as we head back in. I nod small. He gives me a playful push and we stumble up the stairs, gulping final drags under the disapproving headmaster gaze of the keeper of the restaurant gates.
After four hours, the meal was finally over. Mike announces loudly he wants to get burritos. But everyone else says they are full. Gus gets the bill and it is $940 with the tip. Everyone except Gus gasps. Mike eyes the pretty candle I kept reaching out to unconsciously. Speedie keeps batting my hand away, knowing my draw to fire, things that burn, till finally she extinguishes it. Mike holds my gaze and, as only someone with much practice can, smoothly disappears the candle up his sleeve. "Gus bought this too, $940! Man, we should’ve got burritos!"
We leave showered with thanks from the staff, our coats in their respective states held out for us. On the street, Mike searches his pockets for a cigarette. Realizing he has none, he calls out to two young dotcom-looking guys walking past, "Yo, got a cigarette?" He asks with the rights of one who has been on the street and knows certain personal property is communal.
They stop and grudgingly hand him one. "Got a light?" They don’t answer; they are the types that would never stop for a beggar, and here they are serving one that offered no groveling gratitude. They were tricked into it by the command, the camaraderie offered in Mike’s tone. Mike perceives their indisposition and bristles, "What?!" The body language is fast and unconscious, it is boys at war. Mike steps forward and the dotcoms retreat rapidly out of self-preservation. These are not boys used to street challenges. But once they are a safe two body lengths away, they half turn back with fiery expressions, an attempt to reclaim their manhood lost in this skirmish. But Mike has turned from them already and is greedily smoking up their cigarette, with a light from Speedie. Shaking his head he tells me, "I always give anyone a cigarette." It is an unwritten rule, a rare kindness of the street, and to break it is inexcusable. The disturbance it has caused in Mike is indicative of how much the street is still with him.
The valet brings us our car and we pile in. In the back, Mike turns to me and lets the bulge from his sleeve slide out like a snake regurgitating. "Here, this is for you," offering the purloined candle. For the first time, he notices the cigarette burns on my hands and wrists. "I have those too." He smiles and places his hands on my lap and looks at me as something passes between us–I have scars too.
Days later, after he has returned to the L.A. set of a Sandra Bullock film he is making and I think I am long forgotten, he calls to read to me from his notebook. He has been writing about me: "Blue hair and hard eyes and warm thighs in gray corduroys resting against mine in the backseat of this car."
"I like your scars, Mike," I tell him.
Bedroom Interview with Mike Pitt - J.T. LeRoy (nerve.com)
Mike Pitt is boyishly sexy, like a young Marlon Brando with a generous dose of Leo DiCaprio, pre-Titanic. That is what turned Pitt into a teen's wet dream for the season he spent on Dawson's Creek. But before the adolescent fandom world could claim him, he quit to make films that would discourage those ready to plaster him on the cover of Teenbeat. From a scene stealing part in Gus Van Sant's Finding Forrester to his role as Tommy Gnosis in John Cameron Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Pitt proves he has the ability onscreen to enthrall. It's the way he blows smoke out of the side of his mouth, as if blessing the wind. The way he carries himself, with the outward confidence of a street tough and the inner vulnerability of your average nineteen year old. He seems constantly on the edge of unraveling, as if using all his strength to nobly protect a fragile rose. But he usually succeeds at keeping it together and unraveling those around him instead — like he did me in the following interview. —J.T. Leroy J.T. Leroy: Okay, the tape recorder is on. Where's your favorite place to make love?
Mike Pitt: I don't think I have a favorite place to make love.
JT: Do you prefer it on the floor or on the bed?
Mike: I do like it on the floor, only because it seems like you can get in there better. But sometimes on the bed you can get good leverage too, because it's high off the ground and you can be hanging off of it.
JT: So, you're staying in a lot of hotels because you're filming a Sandra Bullock movie right now called Fool Proof. Do you worry that the maids are aware of your sexual habits?
Mike: Yeah, I'm always worried because every night they have to replace the body lotion but not the shampoo and conditioner. I always wonder if they know I'm jerking off with it.
JT: Do you just leave them a big tip or something?
Mike: Yeah, I actually do give them a big tip, only because they put up with it a lot. I'm really dirty.
JT: When was the first time you masturbated?
Mike: About fifth grade, in CCD class. I was always really bored, so I would go to the bathroom and try to masturbate. I thought masturbation was fake, I thought everyone was just kidding about it because nothing would happen for me, nothing would come out. But I would just do it anyway. I remember there was a crucifix right over the toilet. Then finally one time, all of a sudden, it just went off and I couldn't believe it. It was all over my hand so I tasted it, because, you know, I was just a kid and I was curious. After it happened, I was like, Oh my God, I'm doing this all the time.
JT: How did it taste?
Mike: It tasted like, you know, like how it tastes. I know you know what semen tastes like.
JT: Yeah, I know.
Mike: I remember walking back into class and they were talking about the word of God.
JT: And you had just discovered it!
Mike: Yeah, I did. I didn't feel guilty at all. I thought, Wow, maybe God isn't so bad.
JT: Well, in the play that you got discovered in, Trestle at Pope Lick Creek by Naomi Wallace, you had to jerk off, right? And you masturbate in Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Do you ever worry that you'll be known as the Jerk-Off Boy?
Mike: No, I think to worry about something like that would probably cause it to happen in some way. I'm not really modest when it comes to sex stuff. If there's a reason to do it in the story, then I do it. I feel like I'm in a great position to show people that things that aren't necessarily "normal" are okay. We're so uptight as Americans. I think just showing that you're comfortable doing those things, stuff rubs off — no pun intended.
JT: Did your mother come and see the play where you were whacking it?
Mike: Yeah, they did. They said that they liked it, but you could tell that they were kind of weirded out. I got weirded out during a Sunday show where all these senior citizens got in for free — and they really didn't know what they were going to see. The whole front row was old ladies.
JT: Oh my God.
Mike: My face was literally a few feet away from them.
JT: Were you wearing clothes?
Mike: Yeah, I was wearing clothes. Well, they were half on and half off.
JT: Well, what did they think?
Mike: I don't know, my eyes were closed. But they were really loud. I remember this one lady saying, "What's he doing? Agnes, what's he doing?"
JT: Did Agnes answer? "He's whackin' it, Ethel."
Mike: No, or at least I didn't hear.
JT: So how do you feel about being turned into a sex symbol? You know, with men and women falling in love with you, like the way they do with Brad Pitt. How do you deal with that?
Mike: I don't think I'm considered one right now. But I think if it happens and starts getting in the way of doing things that are important, there are ways to fix that. Like Johnny Depp. He was a sex symbol and he totally turned it around. And you can tell it was a conscious choice, you know? It wasn't something that just blindly happened. He was kind of forcing people to look at him the way he wanted them to see him. I admire that.
JT: Yep. Um . . . You're a very romantic kind of guy.
Mike: Yeah?
JT: Yeah, you don't think you are? You strike me as really tender.
Mike: Thanks.
JT: I find you very sweet, very tender, very sensitive.
Mike: [Very quietly] Yeah, well I find you the same way.
JT: Well, now you're making me blush. [Laughs] But like . . . I mean . . . I guess . . . So, when you're . . . Oh gosh . . . Rewind! [J.T. stumbles, turns off the tape recorder and turns it back on.]
Mike: Wow, that was easy.
JT: What? To get me flustered? Well, the thing that's intense about you is when you're with someone, you're very much with them. You've got an intensity of focus with them, like what you bring to your work.
Mike: [Quietly] It depends on the person.
JT: What makes the difference?
Mike: I don't know, like good people and bad people.
JT: I mean in a romantic sense . . . Are you always intense with someone you're with?
Mike: No. It's not as one-sided as you think it is. I think I give off what's given.
JT: Kind of like acting in a scene and rising to the level of others?
Mike: Oh, let's not talk about acting.
JT: Is it easier to talk about sex?
Mike: Yeah, I guess.
JT: So you have very sensitive nipples?
Mike: Oh, God. I have weird-looking nipples. I have girl nipples.
JT: 'Cause they're so sensitive?
Mike: No, 'cause they're so girly. 'Cause they're kind of big.
JT: Well, I think that's really sexy. You don't like them?
Mike: I don't really like 'em; some people like 'em.
JT: I think the combination of your lips and your nipples is going to make the gay community just totally fall in love with you.
Mike: Well, what about the straight community?
JT: Well, the girls will love you too. Take River Phoenix: he was somebody that girls loved, men loved and he didn't really give a fuck what people thought. He was so fucking great. Like Martha Plimpton said, River would just fall in love with people's souls and it didn't matter what sex they were. You know, that's so great in a world where people constantly have to define themselves. Like Tom Cruise always denying that he's gay.
Mike: Well, I think that's more about being secure. I look at River as someone who was really secure about himself.
JT: Do you get fan mail?
Mike: My mom gets the fan mail for my role on Dawson's Creek. I didn't like to read and respond to them because it always depressed me for some reason. I went from doing theater where adults would come up to me and tell me I gave a really incredible performance, to having twelve year olds sending me mail saying, "I think you're hot." It got really hard for me to play the game, to pretend like it mattered, because I felt like I was lying to people by doing it. But my mom gets a kick out of it for some reason. She tells me she gets all these letters from guys in jail.
JT: That's hot. Do you answer the letters from jail?
Mike: Well, my mom's kind of sweet and gullible. She's sending them headshots.
JT: How do you feel about being the San Quentin Pin-Up Boy?
Mike: I feel like I probably shouldn't get arrested.
JT: That's a good answer. So you're not answering twelve-year-old girls, but you're answering these hard and fast criminals?
Mike: No, my mom answers everyone. She's still doing it and I ask her, "Mom, what are you doing this for? It's all little girls asking things like, What's my favorite color?" And she says, "Yes, but that's important, that's important stuff."
JT: Do you think Hedwig is really going to change your life? People really, really love it.
Mike: I don't know if it'll change my life, but I hope people will like it. Your life doesn't really change.
JT: Well, it does if you get really famous and you can't walk outside. I know how you like to ride the trains.
Mike: Yeah, but a lot of times I see people looking at me, but they don't say anything because I'm on the subway too, coming home from work or whatever.
JT: Do a lot of teenage girls recognize you?
Mike: They did when I was on Dawson's Creek. It was really, really fucked up, 'cause you feel like a circus clown. They'll literally just start screaming and pointing at you, like you're a three-headed donkey.
JT: And for them it's not even you, it's what you represent. Speaking of representations, is Tommy Gnosis, your character in the movie who falls in love with the transsexual Hedwig, bisexual?
Mike: I don't know; I didn't play him that way. I played him as a straight kid who just fell in love with someone. I felt like he fell in love with her the first time he saw her. I could have played him gay or bisexual, but I thought he'd be more interesting if he was straight and there was nothing he could really do about it because he had already fallen in love.
JT: I think that's absolutely perfect. I think that's a lot more interesting. When a straight guy falls in love, he can't help it, despite the situation or who the person is . . . Just one last question. What's the most erogenous part of your body?
Mike: What's "erogenous" mean?
JT: You know, what has the most sexy feeling, what's most sensitive. What part of your body feels the most incredible when somebody touches it?
Mike: It really depends on the person. My lower back. That's really weird, but I really like my lower back being touched. That's horrible.
JT: Why is that horrible?
Mike: It just seems like a really unexciting way to end an interview.

Round 1:

1. On the list of the 10 largest islands by land area (not including Australia), two countries lie claim to three of them. Name either country. a. Indonesia and Canada
   
2. Like birds, crocodiles swallow stones and rocks on purpose. One of these reasons is to use the stones as ballast. What is the other reason? a. To help digest food
   
3. What element, contained in many antiperspirant deodorants, has been inaccurately blamed for causing breast cancer? a. Aluminum
   
4. Of the Vice President, the Speaker of the House, or the Secretary of State, when Nixon resigned the presidency on August 9, 1974, to what individual was the letter addressed? a. Secretary of State (Henry Kissinger)
   
5. What is the name of the fictional universe created by James Cameron in the 2009 film “Avatar,” which shares its name with a music app you may have on your phone? a. Pandora
   
6. What is the proper name for the stalk of a mushroom, which sounds like the name of a vocalist of a band from Athens, GA? a. Stipe
   
7. Numbering 7, what TV show is considered the most spun-off American television show in history? a. All in the Family
   

Round 2:

1. According to legend, what beverage is named "Le Cognac de Napoleon" because English officers on the ship that brought Napoleon to St. Helena liked it so much? a. Courvoisier
   
2. If a medicine contains diphenhydramine, it will likely have what effect on you? a. Put you to sleep
   
3. During the 2010s, there were two movies that won the Best Picture Oscar in consecutive years that had nine-letter titles, with what same last five letters in each title? a. “light” (“Spotlight” and “Moonlight”)
   
4. With what events would you associate the locations of Tordesillas in 1494, Westphalia in 1648, Utrecht in 1713, Paris in 1763, and Portsmouth in 1905? a. Famous treaties were signed
   
5. Of the peacock, the ostrich, or the flamingo, what bird, which is also the national bird of India, has been commonly associated with the Hindu god of knowledge? a. Peacock
   
6. In golf and tennis there are four primary annual tournaments called majors. Which is the only name of a major featured in both golf and tennis? a. U.S. Open
   
7. Of the three countries that make up Scandinavia, which country is the only one whose flag does not consist of at least two of the colors red, white and blue? a. Sweden (blue and gold)
   

MUSIC ROUND 7 Songs from 7 Decades (song and artist) Song Artist 1. 2020s: Blinding Lights The Weeknd 2. 2010s: Pumped Up Kicks Foster the People 3. 2000s: Rehab Amy Winehouse 4. 1990s: You Oughta Know Alanis Morissette 5. 1980s: Down Under Men at Work 6. 1970s: Dream On Aerosmith 7. 1960s: You Can’t Hurry Love The Supremes
Round 3:

1. What is the more common but ostracizing name for Hansen's Disease? a. Leprosy
   
2. True or false: The words earth, wind, fire, and water all appear in the names of winners of the Best Picture Oscar. a. True: (“The Greatest Show on Earth,” “Gone with the Wind,” “Chariots of Fire,” “On the Waterfront,” “The Shape of Water”)
   
3. When Hollywood legend Kirk Douglas died in February of this year, how old was he, within 1 year? a. 103 (accept 102-104)
   
4. What is the only continent on which you will not find bees? a. Antarctica
   
5. Due to a shortage of copper during World War II, pennies produced in the United States were made from what? a. Steel
   
6. Of 24k gold, sterling silver, or mother of pearl, when eating Beluga caviar, it is proper to eat it with a spoon made of what material? a. Mother of pearl
   
7. What game, using a deck of cards and pegs, was invented by British poet Sir John Suckling in the early 17th century? a. Cribbage
   

Hi everyone, a while ago I asked for funny or interesting football words in your languages in the daily discussion thread. I promised I'd make a text post about it but kind of forgot, better late then never, eh?
Please contribute as well, I'm sure there are many more languages with hilarious or interesting football words, this is just a small list I gathered today.
If there are any mistakes, let me know. I'll be adding new entries as we go.
So without further ado:

German

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Ampelkarte	traffic light card	second yellow -> red card
Alibipass	alibi pass	(sideways) pass without any intention, just to give the ball away to one of your team mates
Bananenflanke	banana cross	heavily curved cross
Bauernspitz	farmer's tip	toe poke
Beton anrühren	to puddle the mortar	to switch to a very defensive formation, to park the bus
Blutgrätsche	blood slidingtackle	a legbreaker of a tackle
Chancentod	chances death	cha cha cha
"Das Runde muss ins Eckige"	"The round thing must go into the angular thing"	Famous phrase coined by world cup winning coach Sepp Herberger
"Den Okocha machen"	doing the Okocha	doing the rainbow flick
Doppelpass	double pass	one-two pass
Elfmeterkiller	penalty killer	a keeper who saves many penalties
Fahrstuhlmannschaft	elevator team	yo-yo club always between top flight and second flight (West Brom, Nürnberg, etc.)
Fallrückzieher	fall back puller	bicycle kick
Fliegenfänger	fly catcher	keeper with bad shot judgement abilities
Fritz-Walter-Wetter	Fritz-Walter-weather	very rainy weather (almost British rain), Fritz Walter (1.FCK legend) preferred to play in the rain due to a Malaria infection in the war
Fußballgott	football god	self explanatory, examples would be Alex Meier (unironically) or Heiko Westermann (ironically)
Gedächtnisgrätsche	memory tackle	a tackle reminiscient of the good old days, when men were men
Hexenkessel	witch cauldron	a stadium with traditionally great atmosphere
Kerze	candle	a shot with an almost vertical trajectory
Kopfballungeheuer	headball monster	very strong player in the air, i.e. Jan Koller, Andy Caroll, etc.
Meisterschale	master bowl	name for the Bundesliga trophy
Punktelieferant	points supplier	a team that loses a lot, in particular to teams equal or worse to them
Rudelbildung	(animal) herd forming	multiple players from both teams swarming each other and the referee
Rumpelfüßler	rubbish-footed	player with very limited technical skills
Salatschüssel	salad bowl	name for the "Meisterschale": the Bundesliga trophy
Schönwetterfußballer	nice weather footballer	someone who only wants to play in perfect conditions, i.e. sunny, not too cold/hot, perfect pitch
Schwalbe	swallow (bird)	a dive
Schwalbenkönig	swallow king	the king of divers
Seitfallzieher	side fall puller	scissor kick
Sonntagsfußballer	sunday footballer	someone who only wants to play in perfect conditions, i.e. sunny, not too cold/hot, perfect pitch
Sonntagsschuss	sunday shot	long range goal from an unlikely position to score a goal from
Straßenfußballer	street footballer	a skillful player who grew up on the streets (Ronaldinho, Kevin-Prince Boateng, Mahrez, etc.)
Tunnel	-	nutmeg
Turniermannschaft	tournament team	a (national) team that traditionally perfoms better in the big tournaments as opposed to meaningless friendlies or less important qualifying matches, like Germany (disregard 2018)
Übersteiger	overstepper	step over
Wadenbeißer	calves biter	tenacious defenders/defensive midfielders especially if they have low body height, think Gennaro Gattuso as the prototype

thanks FakerPlaysSkarner, PapaSays, kall1nger

Italian

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Biscotto	biscuit	Two teams that agree to end the game with a certain result that would benefit both and most likely damage some other team (Sweden and Denmark drew 2-2 at Euro 2004 to eliminate Italy)
Bomber	word borrowed from English	goalgetter
Calcio	"I kick" - 1st person singular conjugation of "calciare"	Italian word for football
Calciatori	kickers	footballers
Capocannoniere	leading cannoneegunner	top scorer in a competition
Catenaccio	door bolt/chain	-
Cucchiaio	a spoon	panenka penalty
Foca	seal	spectacular and skillfull player but in the end completely useless
Pallonetto	diminutive of ball (pallone)	a chip from open play
fare una papera	to make/do a duck	goalkeeper making a mistake
La Maledetta	the Cursed	special kind of free kick technique: think Pirlo, over the wall and dipping hard behind it
Mangiarsi/cacarsi un gol	eating/shitting a goal	failing to score an easy goal chance
Poker	-	scoring 4 goals in 1 game, referring to 4 of a kind
Panzer	German for military tank	nickname for strong German players as well as teams: Bayern, BVB, VfB (back in 1989 propably), also refers to the National team
Sciabolata	saber cut	a cross
Triangolo	triangle	one-two pass
Tridente	trident	a line-up with 3 attacking players
Tunnel	-	nutmeg

thanks to Coldh

French

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Aile de pigeon	pidgeon's wing	backheel volley
avoir les pieds carrés	to have square feet	no technique, not being good at all with the ball
Biscotte	rusk	yellow card
bouffer la feulle	to eat the sheet	when a striker misses several chances
casser les reins	to break the kidneys	when a player is played like a fiddle
Caviar	-	a fantastic assist
Chèvre	a goat	A very bad player
Coup du Sombrero	rainbow kick	-
Coupeur de citron	lemon cutter	bench warmer
dévisser	to unscrew	to badly miss a shot
enrhumer un adversaire	to give an opponent a cold	dribble past an opponent
faire une Arconada	named after Luis Arconada's (GK for Spain) mistake against Platini in Euro 1984	goalkeeping blunder
Mine	landmine	very power shot
nettoyer les toiles d'araignée	to clean the cobwebs	to shoot in the top corner
petit pont	little bridge	nutmeg
prendre une valise	to take a suitcase	to be largely beaten
Renard des surfaces	fox of the penalty area	a fox in the box
tricoter	to knit	to dribble pointlessly
vendanger	to harvest	to miss a goal opportunity
Ventre mou	flabby/chubby belly	mid-table
Verrou	door bolt/chain	interestingly enough the predecessor to Italy's catenaccio

Thanks giyomu, TeKaeS, Hippemann, PierreMichelPaulette

Spanish

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Arquero Paraguay/Argentina*	Archer	goalkeeper.
Calesitero Paraguay	roundabout	a player who often dribble succesfully a lot but with a bad end product
Cancerbero Paraguay	Cerberus	goalkeeper
Caño	a pipe	nutmeg
Cantada	sung song	blatant goalkeeping mistake
Cantera Paraguay	quarry	youth ranks
Cara Sucia Paraguay	dirty face	a very young player
Chilena	female demonym of chile	bicycle kick
colgarse del travesaño	to hang (oneself) from the crossbar	to park the bus
Crack	?*	a very good player
hacer la cama	to make the bed	Used when somebody is conspiring against somebody else, for example when players conspire to turn on the manager to get him sacked
inclinar la cancha Argentina	to tilt the pitch	may be used when a referee gives too many favourable calls to a particular team. Also used when a team goes all out attack
Manos de humo Argentina	hands of smoke	a very poor goalkeeper, who usually fumbles the ball
Pecho Frío Paraguay	cold chest	an usually talented player who doesn't seem to care about the result
Pichichi	-	Name of former Athletic goalscorer Pichichi which now has become the term to refer to a top-scorer, even outside the Spanish league
Piscinero	pool boy	diver
Rabona	tail kick	Torres doing it
Vaca sagrada	sacred cow	popular phrase coined by Cruyff: important players or players with a lot of experience

*"Arquero" is the main term for goalkeeper here (Argentina/Uruguay) as well. Even though that word means archer, in this case it comes from the fact that we actually call the goal "arco" instead of "portería/puerta". So yes, arco means both goal and bow. Therefore arquero stands both for goalkeeper and archer

• anden4

thanks to cilinderman, nocomet, Beatlepy93, anden4
?*What does the word "crack" literally mean? Does it refer in any way to cocaine or did it come from somewhere else etymologically?

Polish

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Grać z klepki	to play on/from the stave	exchanging fast first touch passes (tiki taka)
Szczupak	pike (the fish)	diving header
Wolny elektron	Free electron	free role player
Kosa, kosić	Scythe, to scythe	hard slide tackle
Laga	long, hard stick	attacking with long balls only (Pulisball)
Plecy, plecy rosną	Back, the back is growing (back as anatomical part of human)	warning when the player with the ball is approached from the back by opponent
Piątek	friday	Sheva reincarnated
Sito	a sieve	nutmeg

Austrian German

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Außenpracker	exterior carpet beater	fullback
Dribblanski		a technical player with good dribbling skills that lacks end product, think Adama Traore
Eiergoalie	egg goalkeeper	error prone keeper
Fersler	comes from Ferse (heel)	back heel goal/pass
Gaberln	comes from Gabel (fork)	doing keepie uppies
Jud	Jew	toe poke
Wadlbeißer	calves biter	tenacious defenders/defensive midfielders especially if they have low body height, think Gennaro Gattuso as the prototype

thanks odrik

Dutch

thanks to MrCrashdummy

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Brilstand	Glasses score	0-0 (looks like glasses)
Chocoladebeen	chocolate leg	Weak foot
Zondagsschot	Sunday shot	A shot that would normally be a big miss but ends up in the goal some how
Postbodevoetbal	Postman football	Players who don't pass over longer distances but deliver the ball to their teammates
Scorebordjournalistiek	Scoreboard journalism	Analysing a match on just the result, even though losing doesn't mean playing bad and vice versa
Patatgeneratie	French fries generation	Spoilt players (usually talking about a certain group of players from the 80ies)
In de winkelhaak	In the machinst square	In the topcorner

Icelandic

Thanks to Glenn55whelan

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Að hreinsa	to clean	to clear the ball
Að klobba	to crotch someone	to nutmeg someone
Að sóla	to sun someone	to dribble past someone
Að strauja	to iron someone	to tackle someone very roughly
Bakfallsspyrna	backfalling kick	bicycle kick
Dauðafæri	death chance	big chance to score
Hjólhestaspyrna	wheel horse kick (wheel horse is an old word for bicycle in Icelandic)	bicycle kick
Markamaskína	goal machine	good goalscorer
Markahrókur	goal rook	good goalscorer
Móri	ghost	nickname for José Mourinho
Rangstaða	wrong position	offside
Skógarhlaup	forest run	when a goalkeeper comes way too far out of his goal to challenge for a ball or claim a cross
Sammi Sopi	Sammy sip	nickname for Big Sam
Sparksérfræðingur / sparkspekingur	kick specialist / kick wise man	pundit
Stelpurnar okkar	our girls	nickname for the Female National team
Strákarnir okkar	our boys	nickname for the National team
The Sammi/Samminn	from samskeyti (conjoint)	the place where the crossbar and the post meet

Portuguese (Brazil)

Thanks to rdfporcazzo, ElinorDashwood86

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Caneta	pen	nutmeg
Carretilha	reel	Rainbow Flick
Chapéu	hat	to lob someone
Chinelinho	little sandals (flip flops)	means a player who is always injured (this one might have a connotation that the player is faking injuries)
Drible da vaca	Cow's dribble	to kick the ball in one direction, go for the other one and get the ball back with the defender between you and the ball
Elástico	elastic	Elastico
Lambreta	scooter	Rainbow Flick
Lençol	sheet	to lob someone
Mão de alface	lettuce hands	insult to a bad goalkeeper
Meia-lua	Half moon	same as drible da vaca
Rolinho	little roll	nutmeg

Romanian

thanks RazvanDH

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
A sta cu fundul în poarta	sitting with the ass in goal	parking the bus
A șutat cu piciorul cu care se urcă in tramvai	took a shot with the leg he uses to go on the tram	a bad shot with the weaker foot, implying that the weak foot is so useless it's used only for mundane activities
Braziliană	the Brazilian	rainbow flick
Chifla	bun/bap	miss the ball while trying to kick it
Foarfecă	scissors	overhead kick
Gol turcesc	Turkish goal	a miss where the ball hits the side of the net, giving the impression it went in
Urechi	ears	nutmeg

Cantonese

thanks to schrodingers_razors, JustInsane426

Word/Phrase (	semi-literal translation	meaning
通坑渠 (tong hang kui)	clearing the drain	nutmeg
炒芥蘭 (tsao gai lan)	cooking kale	collision of shins
斬波 (tsam bor)	chopping ball	a long pass or a cross
汽車維修員	car repairer	player who always fouls, this comes from stephen chow’s kung fu soccer
收山腳 (shou shan geuk)	-	career ending tackle
磨薑 (mor geung)	grinding ginger	grinding your leg against the ground when u fall
疊瓦 (dip nga)	overlapping tiles	overlapping run by a fullback
執雞 (tsup gai)	picking chicken	player scoring on easy goal/tap-in, for example due to goalie error or defender making a poor clearance
莫氣 (mok hei)	no gas left	player is low on stamina
單蹄馬 (dan tai ma)	horse with only one hoof	player who is not ambidextrous and relies too much on his strong foot, ie Robben
單刀 (dan dou)	single knife	player is one on one with the goalie
炒飛機 (tsao fei gei)	shooting airplanes	player making a shot that flyes into row z
曬靴 (sai hur)	to show one’s soles	going studs up in tackles
底線傳底 (dai seen cheun dai)	to pass to the touchline at the touchline	absolute fail of a cross that went out of bounds
烏龍 (oolong)	-	to score an own goal
牛奶仔 (ngau lai zai)	milk boy	player who is playing safe and doesn’t take risks
妹下妹下 (mui ha mui ha)	to nibble	player is not paying full effort in a match
扭波 (lau ball)	to twist and turn with a ball	dribbling
爆人 (bao yen)	to explode past ppl	use pure speed to dribble past someone, ie bale vs maicon/ bale vs bartra
箍波 (cool ball)	to be entangled with the ball	to be good at at retaining possession; being press resistant
衛生波 (wai seng ball)	hygienic football	playing a match where players are not aggressive towards each other
痾蛋 (or dan)	to lay an egg	goalkeeper failing to control the ball, thus the ball slips from his hands
大細龍 (dai sai long)	big and small nets	ball goes right through between the legs of a defender into the net
打仔格 (dai tsai gak)	aggressive personality	player such as Gattuso, Keane, etc
雪糕筒 (seud gow tong)	traffic cone	defender who gets dribbled past every time
放題 (fong tai)	all you can eat buffet	same meaning as the one above
貼身膏藥（tip sun go yeuk)	ailment that sticks firmly on the skin	man marking opposition player
神龍（son long)	godly dragon	goalkeeper that makes amazing saves, for example de gea
叉燒 (tsa siu)	bbq pork	easy chance to score
跑狗 (pau gau)	running dog	derogative description for a player who is running his socks off but isn’t actually contributing much in attack
手榴彈 (sau lau dan)	hand grenade	Rory Delap-esque throw in
七旋斬 (tsut suen zam)	ball that spins seven times	Beckham’s trademark curved free kick
浪射 (long se)	wave shoot	shooting from unlikely positions or shooting excessively
柱躉 (tseu dung)	pillar	big man up front
海鮮波 (hoi seen bor)	seafood soccer	the team’s performance is as unstable as fluctuating seafood price in a wet market, usually used to describe Liverpool a few years back (利記海鮮)
鐵桶陣 (tit tung zhun)	iron bucket formation	park the bus
魚生粥 (yu sang zhuk)	fish congee	match that is won by fine margins, for example a 1-0
互交白卷( wu gau bak guen)	handing each other empty papers	nil nil draw
七個一皮	7-1	losing in a humilating manner - NOT related to Germany 7-1 win against Brazil, see details below*
水銀瀉地 (sui ngun sei dei)	water and silver is poured all over the ground	team is playing attractive attacking football
波係圓嘅 (ball hai yuen ge)	the ball is round	you never who wins or who loses until the end
黑哨 (huk sau)	black whistle	unfair refereeing
十二碼	a 12 yard	penalty
閘	a gate	full-back
倒掛	hanging upside-down	- overhead kick, sometimes added with 金鈎 (golden hook)
有鬼!	There's a ghost!	Man on!
踩波車	stepping/riding on the ball vehicle	when a player miss kicks the ball, slips on the ball and falls on his ass (rare one, probably more common in amateur football)
食波餅	eat a ball cake/pie	when player gets smacked hard in the face by the ball, as if taking a massive pie to the face
收山腳 (shou shan geuk)	retiring tackle	career ending tackle
派牌 (pai pai)	distributing cards	midfielder that springs passes on the the pitch, like David Silva, Fabregas, Pirlo, Xabi Alonso, etc

*so this seven to one saying comes from gambling; so 一皮means one cent in Cantonese, and one dollar is equal to ten cents, so that gambler lose three cents; three has the same sound (sam) as 衫 (means clothes in cantonese), so the hidden meaning is that the gambler has lost so much that he has to use his clothes to exchange for cash to pay up

• schrodingers_razors

Russian

Thanks to comrade fotorobot

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
горчичник	mustard plaster	yellow card
играть на втором этаже	to play on the second floor	to play the ball with the head
бить через себя	to strike through oneself	bicycle kick
зацепить мяч	hook onto the ball	to control a received pass
[игра] в стенку	[play] to the wall	a "1-2 pass"
сухарь	dry bisquit	game without a goal
бомбардир	bombardier	attacker / goalscorer
снайпер	sniper	someone good at long distance shots
навес	a canopy	a lob into the box
пас в больницу	a pass into the hospital	pass into a strongly defended area (think of a lob towards an area defended by Bonucci/Chiellini at the last minute of a game)
нарушение правил	breaking of the rules	foul
одиннацатьметровый	the eleven meter	penalty shot

Swedish

Thanks to elburrito1

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Bollkalle	Ball Kalle(nickname for Karl/Carl)	Ballboy
Brassespark	Brazilian kick	bicycle kick
Brassering	Brazilian ring	standing in a circle trying to keep the ball in the air
Danska/Norska krysset	The Danish/Norwegian cross	bottom corner. Top corner is called krysset (the cross) so the danish or norwegian cross is just a worse version of the cross
Dansken	the Danish	a "tactic" where you kick it back at kickoff and send a long ball directly up field where everyone has ran. So all wingers and strikers just rush forward and a midfielder sends a long ball on chance. Popular with youth teams, "they are doing the danish"
Dansk skalle	Danish skull	to headbutt someone, Zidane gave Materazzi a danish skull
Filma	to film sth.	diving or embellishment of the referee
Korpen	The Raven	More or less sunday league, recreational football. I play football with my mates in The Raven
Mjölka/Maska	to Milk/To worm	to waste time
Ronaldinhofinten	the Ronaldinho trick	Elastico
Tåpaj	Toe Pie	Toe poke
Tunnel	-	nutmeg
TV-räddning	TV save	hollywood save by the keeper, making it look more dramatic than necessary

Various

Word/Phrase	semi-literal translation	meaning
Cantonese - 摘雞	to pick chicken	easy tap in goal
Japanese - メンバーチェンジ (Menbaa Chenji)	member change	substitution
Japanese - スパイク	spikes	football boots
Greek - Παλτό (palto)	coat	a shit footballer, usually one with high expectations he hasn't met
Serbian - Suknjica	skirt (for women)	nutmeg
Serbian - Golčina	-	Banger of a goal
Malay - Kaki bangku	bench legs/chair legs	bad footballer

Bonus:
Thanks to MrCrashdummy once again

Cruyffisms

Word/Phrase	meaning
Elk nadeel heb z'n voordeel	Every disadvantage has it's advantage
Als je niet kunt winnen, moet je zorgen dat je niet verliest	If you can't win you have to make sure you don't lose
Je moet schieten, anders kun je niet scoren	You have to shoot, otherwise you can't score
Als wij de bal hebben kunnen hun (sic) niet scoren	If we have the ball, they can't score
Voetbal is simpel, maar simpel voetballen blijkt vaak het moeilijkste wat er is.	Football is simple, but simple football often proves to be the hardest thing there is
Voetbal is simpel: je bent op tijd of je bent te laat. Als je te laat bent moet je eerder vertrekken.	Football is simple, you're on time or you're too late. If you're too late you have to leave earlier
Als Italianen één kans krijgen, maken ze er twee	If Italians get one chance, they'll score twice
Italianen kunnen niet van je winnen, maar je kan wel van ze verliezen	Italians can't beat you, but you can lose to them
Kijk, de bal is een essentieel onderdeel van het spel	You see, the ball is an essential part of the game

Thanks to Jujugg (French), HippoBigga (Spanish), Vacuumflask (Austrian), spikeeleslie515 (Cantonese), vul6, mojekosio (Polish) and two redditors whose accounts have been deleted since then.
Also thanks to Glenn55whelan, if you could provide the Icelandic words for these football words as well I will incorporate them into their own section.
Thanks to Ravenblood21 for Greek, Kyuashu for Serbian, amanfikry for Malay
I'm sorry it took so long, dieyoubastards.
So, now it's your turn. These are only very few of such words, I'd like to see many more languages with their own quirky football terminology.
Of course, if there are some lesser known English words, comment them as well.
Something along the lines of twatter meaning "laces shot pelting someone right in the face" (propably non-existent), you surely have many more like these to contribute.

[as Mickey walks into the bar]
Mickey Pearson: Bobby.
Barman: Boss?
Mickey Pearson: I’ll have a pint and a pickled egg.
Barman: Coming straight up.
​
​
Mickey Pearson: [voice over] If you wish to be the king of the jungle, it’s not enough to act like a king. You must be the king. There can be no doubt. Because doubt causes chaos and one’s own demise.
[we then see as Mickey calls Rosalind, another man walks behind him, and as Mickey overhears someone harassing Rosalind, a gunshot rings out and blood sprays]
​
​
[as Fletcher shows up at Ray’s house]
Ray: I should stab you with that f**king rolling pin!
Fletcher: Oh, don’t be c**ty. I was just hoping we could have a cozy little drink together. So, I’ve got a meeting on Saturday at your favorite newspaper. As the best private investigator in this smoky little town, good evening, ladies and gentlemen, they are ready to put a hundred and fifty grand in my pocket to give them some filth. Good for me, that, but in this case, it’s bad for you.
​
​
[after he’s demanded 20 million pounds in blackmail money]
Fletcher: I’m going to tell you a story to demonstrate why my quote is my quote. Will you play a game with me, Ray?
Ray: I don’t want to play a game.
Fletcher: Please?
Ray: No.
Fletcher: I said play a f**king game with me, Ray.
​
​
[he begins to tell Ray Mickey’s story]
Fletcher: Enter our protagonist. He’s good looking. He’s gorgeous. He’s golden age. He’s a proper handsome c**t. His name is Mickey Pearson. Unique background has our Mickey. American born, Rhodes scholar. So he’s born clever, but poor. Now that’s quite a leap from a trailer park in Americana to the thousand year-old university in old Angleterre, where he studies the dark art of horticulture. But he never finished his education, never went home, because he found his vocation. A naughty vocation. He’s a bad boy. He starts dealing the dirty wonder weed to his rich, British, upper-class uni pals, and realizes he’s rather good at it.
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[as Fletcher continues to tell Mickey’s story to Ray]
Fletcher: But now the plot begins to thicken. He has reached a crossroads in his life. The middle class and the middle age, they’ve got to him. They’ve corrupted his appetite for the horrors. He’s gone soft. He wanted to cash in his chips, and get out of the game, and he seems to have found the perfect customer.
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[at the gala dinner]
Mickey Pearson: Making a splash with the gentry.
Matthew: Oh, I like to make a splash whenever possible.
Mickey Pearson: Well, you also seem to understand the significance of a proper attire.
Matthew: Indeed I do. I believe a sense of ownership is vital in every aspect of life, perhaps never more so than when it comes to wardrobe. For every look there is a season, and for every season a strategy.
Fletcher: [voice over] Now starts the alpha dance. They’re not really talking about clothes, Raymond. Oh, f**king no. They’re like a pair of old doggies sniffing round one another’s intellectual a**holes. It’s a good old-fashioned C**k-off, Raymond.
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[to Mickey; referring to Matthew]
Rosalind Pearson: He’s a fox, and foxes have a predictable nature. Trust this Jew about that Jew. If you let him in the henhouse, you can expect blood and feathers everywhere.
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Matthew: How does anyone grow fifty tons of super skunk without letting anyone else know how they do it?
Mickey Pearson: I’m flattered to hear that from you, Matthew. I imagine that big brain of yours is sweating a stream of tears just trying to figure it out.
Matthew: Brilliance should be acknowledged.
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[referring to his boss Big Dave and Mickey]
Fletcher: He wants to ruin him, but I am here to do you a favor. And it’s not like you’re not getting something for your money. You could even turn that script into a feature film, Raymond. We could make it together. We could be partners. I have learned off you lot. You got to look after number one, and now it’s my turn. The sun is not going up for me, Ray. It’s going down.
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Mickey Pearson: I’ve gone to great lengths to make my operation as invisible as possible, Matthew. If you were standing on my bush, you wouldn’t know it. As a matter of fact, you are standing on my bush.
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[referring to his weed]
Mickey Pearson: It’s the new gold rush. This is the thin end of a very fat wedge, sir.
Matthew: If it’s such a fat wedge, why don’t you keep it?
Mickey Pearson: You see, I’ve developed a reputation as a man who came up the hard way. You could say that there’s blood on these pretty white hands. But in the new business, once legal and under the jurisdiction of the respectable umbrella of ministerial legitimacy, an enterprise like this will need a face with a clean past, which sadly I do not possess. Retirement doesn’t sound so bad. Long walks in the countryside, pruning roses with my better half, raising some cubs. I’ve earned it.
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Fletcher: Now that we’ve established the dilemma of our protagonist, let us turn to our antagonist. Many miles away, across the open plains, another beautiful feral beast lopes his way to a watering hole.
Ray: Who are you talking about now?
Fletcher: I talk, Raymondo, of Dry Eye. Ooh, Dry Eye. What is he? Chinese? Japanese? Pekingese? Get on your f**king knees? Dirty dragon filth.
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[referring to Dry Eye]
Fletcher: He explodes on the scene like a millennial f**king firecracker. Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Ray: I’m going to have to stop you right there, Fletcher. That doesn’t sound like the Dry Eye I know.
Fletcher: Just making sure you’re paying attention, Raymond. So let’s cut instead to a somewhat anticlimactic, but suave and debonair Dry Eye, like a Chinese James Bond.
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Dry Eye: A gentleman’s quote is a gentleman’s word.
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[to Ray; referring to Rosalind]
Fletcher: I think the time has come for me to introduce you to our queen. A Cockney Cleopatra to Mickey’s cowboy Caesar. The only weak link, in his otherwise impregnable armor, is his devotion, his passion, some would say his obsession, with his beauteous lady wife.
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Mickey Pearson: I like middle age. I like gentrification, private schools, fine wines, and a spoonful of caviar to help my medicine go down. But most importantly, I’m looking forward to spending more time with you.
Rosalind Pearson: Of course you are.
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Rosalind Pearson: Look, I don’t want you knocking around here feeling all unemployed and lost with yourself.
Mickey Pearson: Well, f**k me. Most wives would beg their other halves to get out of this game, but not you.
Rosalind Pearson: That’s because I know you, darling.
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Rosalind Pearson: Look, you’ll have to do this elegantly, love. If word spreads that you’re getting out, that could read as weakness. And if you smell smoke, it’s because there’s a fire, and that could get expensive. So you’re going to have to stamp that out without any gentrification. But not you, love. Don’t you do anything messy. That’s why you’ve got people, remember?
[as she grabs his crotch gently]
Mickey Pearson: I f**king love you, babe.
Rosalind Pearson: Of course you do.
[referring to them having sex]
Mickey Pearson: Any chance?
Rosalind Pearson: No, you can wait. I’ve got a red-hot Russki with her finger on the trigger. I got to deal with it.
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Fletcher: I find you very impatient, Raymond. I am a storyteller. As they say in the film game, I’m laying pipe.
Ray: Well, you’d better put something through it soon.
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[after Dry Eye gets a meeting with Mickey to offer to buy out his business]
Dry Eye: I understand you’re getting out.
Mickey Pearson: Getting out. Getting out of what? Bed? My head? The closet? Don’t flirt with me, Dry Eye. I’m a busy man.
Dry Eye: I hear you’re getting out of the game. And I would like you to consider an offer.
Mickey Pearson: Look, I’m going to stop you right there, so you don’t waste any more of your precious breath, young man. This is not a discussion for the two of us. Unlike the salt and pepper, it’s not on the table.
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[after Dry Eye shows him the amount he’s willing to offer to buy his business]
Mickey Pearson: I am not for sale. And even if I was, you’re several zeros short. Now, you may be able to buy your man’s sausage for that, but to me it just looks rude at breakfast.
Dry Eye: You’re out of touch. You’re forgetting the laws of the jungle, looking down on me. Now, when the silverback’s got more silver than back, he best move on before he gets moved on. It’s not dignified. It’s beneath you, Michael. Trying to do you a favor. This is a big f**king number.
[pause]
Mickey Pearson: And this? Well, this is a big f**king gun.
[from under the table Mickey shoots]
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[after he’s shot Dry Eye]
Mickey Pearson: Eyes not so dry now, are they? Hurts, does it? You looking for your balls, or a hole in the wall?
Dry Eye: F**k!
[as Dry Eye is crawling on the ground to get away]
Mickey Pearson: Where the f**k do you think you’re going? Because you’re not going out the way you came in, you deluded duck-eating c**t! Talking to me about the laws of the jungle. What was it? Something about being beneath me? Silver on back? There’s only one rule in this f**king jungle! When the lion’s hungry, he eats!
[he shoots and kills Dry Eye]
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[after we’ve seen Fletcher’s version of how Mickey kills Dry Eye]
Ray: You’re wrong, Fletcher. That’s not how Michael works.
Fletcher: Yeah, I know. I know. I was just having a bit of fun. Every movie needs a bit of action, doesn’t it? And it’s not like Michael doesn’t have a reputation.
Ray: Had a reputation. He’s been gentrified.
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[we see how really the meeting with Mickey and Dry Eye pans out after he refuses to sell]
Mickey Pearson: I know how you lot love fables, so let me share a little fable with you. There once was a young and foolish dragon who came to ask a wise and cunning lion about acquiring his territory. Now, the lion, he wasn’t interested, so he told the little dragon to f**k off. But the dragon couldn’t understand what “f**k off” meant, so he persisted, and continued to ask the lion about acquiring his territory. So the lion took the little dragon for a walk and put five bullets in his little dragon head. End of story. Now, allegedly there’s a message in there. I don’t know what it is, but you’re a clever boy, Dry Eye. Maybe you can explain it to me.
Ray: I think your time’s up, chaps.
Dry Eye: Michael, you should recons…
[Mickey tuts to stop him]
Mickey Pearson: Just marinade on it. In the meantime, f**k off.
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[to some rowdy young guys in the cafe]
Coach: Don’t stand near me, son. You got your mouthwash muddled up with cat pi**. Take two steps back and wait your turn.
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[to some rowdy young guys in the cafe]
Coach: Now make it quick. Make it funny.
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[after Mickey’s weed lab is raided by amateur MMA fighters calling themselves The Toddlers]
Mickey Pearson: No sooner do I entertain Matthew’s offer to buy me out, and reject Dry Eye’s offer, does one of my farms get raided.
Rosalind Pearson: First time ever.
Mickey Pearson: Doesn’t feel like a coincidence, does it?
Rosalind Pearson: It isn’t. There’s f**kery afoot.
Mickey Pearson: How did they find it?
Ray: I don’t know. I’m making inquiries.
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[after Matthew gives Mickey a 2-shot derringer]
Matthew: It’s a paperweight, to keep down all the paper I’m about to give you.
Mickey Pearson: Well, it looks like a gun.
Jackie: And it’s a paperweight.
Mickey Pearson: Seeing how in this country, unlike in our homeland, they’re illegal.
Jackie: So is riding your bicycle at night without lights. Laws are there as a guideline.
Matthew: In France, it’s illegal to call a pig Napoleon, but just try and stop me.
Mickey Pearson: I quite like it. You’re very kind. Thank you.
Matthew: Hands across the sea.
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[after Mickey asks Ray to get Pressfield’s addict daughter, Laura, from a council estate]
Ray: It’s just that I don’t like smackies. It’s the filth, and the grime, and the grub in the tub.
Mickey Pearson: I’m not asking your OCD to spend the weekend with them, Ray. Think of it as philanthropy. Come on, you’re driving.
Ray: No good deed goes unpunished.
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Ray: Anyway, back to you, Laura, queen in this here kingdom of sh*t. A single rose in a cauldron of thorns. Are you ready to turn a corner? Open the curtains and let the light in? Do your mum and dad a favor and try the impossible, make yourself happy.
Laura Pressfield: Alright.
Ray: F**king hell. That was easy.
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[referring to Matthew]
Rosalind Pearson: Ah. He’s bought you a gun. That’s a nice little gift. Five years in prison all in one little box.
Mickey Pearson: Oh, but that’s not a gun, dear. That’s a paperweight.
Rosalind Pearson: Of course it is, along with a family of six baby bullets.
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Ray: Sorry for the interruption.
Mickey Pearson: What do you need, Ray?
Ray: Laura Pressfield has been returned home safely.
Mickey Pearson: Good. What else?
Ray: One of her associates had an accident.
Mickey Pearson: Sh*t.
Ray: He fell out of a window, boss.
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[after we see Laura’s room-mate, Aslan, falling out of the window to his death]
Rosalind Pearson: Sounds like quite an extreme accident.
Ray: Yeah, it was more like a death, really.
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[referring to Aslan’s death]
Rosalind Pearson: So you killed someone?
Ray: No, it was the gravity that killed him.
Rosalind Pearson: Who was he?
Ray: Some Russian kid with tracks on his arms.
Rosalind Pearson: Russian kid? That doesn’t sound good.
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Fletcher: I bet you told Mickey nothing about what happened.
Ray: You’re fishing, Fletcher, because you’ve got no idea.
Fletcher: You’re right, I am fishing. Look at this. I’m fishing in my little baggie. And what have I found? Oh. Thank you. Or should I say, spasibo?
[shows Ray a photo of Aslan’s dead body after his fall]
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[as Coach finds out it was Mickey’s weed lab his boys raided]
Coach: Just tell me his name isn’t Mickey Pearson.
Ernie: Blimey, Coach, are you a Gypsy too? You been reading tea leaves, got a crystal ball?
Coach: That is not good news, Ernie. Mickey Pearson is terrible news in the face of a violent and expensive debt.
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[Coach visits Ray to apologize for his MMA students raiding the weed lab]
Coach: My boys, they’re naive, they’ve had hard lives, and they’re just starting to come good, but they’re my lads, my responsibility. So it’s me that should be accountable for their actions. Now, I can return your goods, but I can’t return the inconvenience, the time, the f**king headache. And so I offer you my loyalty, my word, my time, until that debt is settled. I’ll make amends, but just leave me lads alone.
Ray: First of all, I’m going to need to know how your lads got the information about where our farm was sited, because that’s not common knowledge. Once we’ve overcome that little challenge, then we can talk.
Coach: Well, I can do better than that.
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[to Ray; referring to the man tied up in the boot of his car]
Coach: His name is Phuhuc, but spelt with a PH, so it sounds like fuhuck.
Ray: So it’s Phuhuc?
Coach: What? Yeah. Yeah, something like that. Yeah. Anyway, he’s the kid that gave us the skunk farm job. Do you know him?
[to the Phuc]
Ray: Yeah. We’ve met before, haven’t we, Phuhuc, Phuc?
Coach: That’s the one.
Ray: Phuhuc?
Coach: Phuhuc.
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[after Phuc escapes from Coach and Ray, jumps over a wall, falls onto train tracks and gets run over by a train]
Mickey Pearson: F**k’s sake, Ray! You need to invest in some parachutes. There’s a pattern emerging here.
Ray: I’m sorry, boss.
Mickey Pearson: And who’s this jumping Phuc boy, anyway?
Ray: It’s Dry Eye’s man.
Mickey Pearson: You mean Lord George’s man.
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[Mickey visits Lord George as he think George is the one going after his business]
Mickey Pearson: What about tea?
Lord George: What about tea?
[he takes a sip of his tea]
Mickey Pearson: Well, that too is a vice. Caffeine is a drug, don’t you know?
Lord George: So is that what you’re here to talk to me about? Tea?
Mickey Pearson: Sweet Mary Jane is my vice of choice, as you well know. Of course, I’m addicted to selling it, not consuming it. I specifically chose to deal in marijuana. Sure, I could see there was more to be made in shifting the white, or the brown powder, as you so chose. But, you see, my jam, it doesn’t kill anyone, and I like that. While your poison, is and always has been, a destroyer of worlds. So, yes, your facilitation is most definitely participation. But I’m not here to give you a sermon on situational ethics.
Lord George: So why the f**k are you here?
[just then George violently throws up]
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[after Mickey poisons George’s tea as retaliation for going after his business]
Mickey Pearson: You’re starting a war with me, George! And I’m trying to moonwalk with elegance here, but I’m finding it very f**king difficult.
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Mickey Pearson: Should you try and undermine me, or should you attempt to threaten my position again, I will be forced to accept your call to arms. Do you understand?
[George nods]
Mickey Pearson: Good. Now, I can see you’re feeling somewhat under the weather. That’s because I spiked your tea with a nasty little parasitic genus called shigella. Left unattended, you will sh*t yourself to death before the sun doth set. I suggest taking two of these fizzy biscuits. You’ll be fine in an hour, or two, long enough to consider your past indiscretions. And, George, if I can get to you in your own kitchen, I can get to you anywhere.
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[referring to Mickey]
Lord George: But you did go behind my back, and offer to buy his business?
Dry Eye: Yeah. Yeah, I did. Now, let me warn you the way you warn me. There comes a point where the young succeed the old. Don’t push me.
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[as Fletcher show Ray a photo of Dry Eye and Matthew]
Ray: So Matthew knows Dry Eye. So what?
Fletcher: Well, yes, I agree. Perhaps they were just meeting up to talk about holidaying in the Maldives, or the long-term implications of leaving the EU. But I filmed it, had it lip-read, translated and transcribed. Rather like the classic 1974 film The Conversation, starring Gene Hackman and John Cazale. You know, Coppola slipped that one out between the Godfathers. It wasn’t really for me. It’s a bit boring, to be honest.
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[as Fletcher shows Ray footage of Dry Eye and Matthew speaking in Cantonese and they are reading Fletcher’s translated lines]
Ray: “There was an incident. Lord George didn’t come through it.”
Fletcher: “Didn’t come through it? The last thing you need to do is attract any octopus.”
Ray: Octopus? What does that mean? It’s not a very good translation.
Fletcher: No, there’s nothing wrong with the translation. Matthew’s not that fluent. And it’s Cantonese. Just go with it, and fill in the blanks.
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[as they continue to watch Fletcher’s footage of Dry Eye and Matthew and read the translated lines]
Ray: “There will be repercussions for Michael’s actions.”
Fletcher: “You think you’re running things, do you? Don’t stroke my mouse hair.”
Ray: What does “mouse hair” mean?
Fletcher: Yeah, I think what he means is, “Don’t jeopardize my deal,” but I admit that one’s a bit of a googly. Then Matthew loses it a bit, and his translation goes completely out of the window. Something about springtime and sweaters. I think what he means is he’s upset. And then Dry Eye says something, but some c**t moved in front of me, so I didn’t get that either.
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[to Ray; after he shows his footage of the meeting between Dry Eye and Matthew]
Fletcher: And there you have it. That’s all I’ve got. Sorry. Show’s over. But I think it’s quite clear that they’re not just mahjong partners, are they?
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[as Dry Eye tries to kidnap Rosalind]
Dry Eye: You know how it works. You either come with me, or Tony here is going to make you come with me.
Rosalind Pearson: You’re in my office under my roof. It’s not your position for Tony to do anything other than to f**k off back from whence he came.
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[Rosalind gets out the 2-shot derringer Matthew gave Mickey earlier]
Dry Eye: What’s that? Is that a paperweight?
Rosalind Pearson: Funny you should say that. Turns out anything with weight can be a paperweight.
Dry Eye: What are you going to do with it?
Rosalind Pearson: Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? Either you do as I tell you to, and use the door, or I’m going to shoot fat Tony right between the eyes. You see, this gun’s only got two bullets, so I’m not going to f**k about illustrating its significance. You’re going to have to trust me on that. The alternative is a little bit absolute.
Dry Eye: I’m going to have to check your grammar on that. It can’t be just a little bit absolute. It either is, or it isn’t.
Rosalind Pearson: Whatever it is, I’ve lost my patience. I’m telling you, I will squeeze this trigger and Tony will be no more.
[we then see her shoot Tony and the other henchmen, and as Dry Eye is about to rape her, Mickey reaches her in time to kill Dry Eye]
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Ray: You’re too smart to be blackmailing us, Fletcher.
Fletcher: Yes, yes, and obviously I’ve taken precautionary measures. You can do all kinds of horrible things to me if you want. I might even enjoy them. But you’d have to leave the country and never come back.
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Fletcher: [to Ray] You see, it was Matthew who told Dry Eye the location of Mickey’s farm, so he could steal his white widow super cheese to cause ripples, and reduce the market value. And that is why Phuc, in turn, got those juice-swilling, acne-backed muscle Marys to do the job. It was Matthew who set this whole train of events off. But what he did not plan on, you see, was Dry Eye, killing Lord George.
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[to Dry Eye during their meeting]
Matthew: You’ve been in this paddling pool for two minutes. I’ve been swimming in the ocean with the sharks for twenty years. I’ll tell you how this plays out. You will drown, and then my Mossad crabs will eat you.
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Fletcher: [to Ray] And this, my love, is why I want my hard-earned twenty million pounds. Because not only do I know exactly how Mickey’s business operates, but I also know that the very man he’s trying to sell it to is trying to force him into selling it on the cheap, and has indirectly started a war. So, you see, I think you should be calling me your trusted consigliere, or your spy behind the lines, your intellectual reconnaissance, if you prefer.
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[after he’s finished his blackmailing story]
Fletcher: So, strong recommendation, just pay up and watch me recede into the sunset blowing kisses, yes?
Ray: Well, then, time to use the door, you black bastard.
Fletcher: Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it, because I’m not black.
Ray: No, but your f**king soul is, you dark c**t. Now, out of my house, because I’m going to bed.
Fletcher: Can I come with you?
Ray: No, but you can go smoke the exhaust pipe in the back of your hearse.
Fletcher: I might come anyway. You’ll just hear me scratching about in the dark, w**king into a hanky.
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[as they watch the blackmail footage of Big Dave and the pig]
Ray: You can’t unsee it once you’ve seen it, can you?
Coach: No, you can’t unsee it. It’s nightmare fuel. That will be with me forever.
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Coach: [to Ray] I’m not a f**king gangster. Now, I’ve been forced to do some gangster things, that’s okay. But I’m not the gift that keeps on giving. So with the greatest respect, I’ll do this one last thing for you, and then that’s it. No más. Three strikes and I’m out.
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[to Mickey as they meet in a frozen fish plant]
Matthew: Your unit economics have taken a hit, and forecasting out your top-line growth margin in the current inimical climate, I calculate what was worth four hundred million a month ago, must now be valued at an anemic, mm, one thirty. You see, it’s not about the first domino that fell, Michael. It’s about the last.
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Mickey Pearson: I like your domino analogy. The question I ask is, who tumbled the first domino?
Matthew: I’m afraid that’s not my concern, or my business, Michael.
Mickey Pearson: At the risk of contradicting you, it is very much your business, and certainly your concern. Only you made one mistake.
Matthew: That being?
Mickey Pearson: You seem to have mistaken me for some kind of a c**t. Let me introduce you to the first domino.
[Mickey reveals Dry Eye’s frozen dead body]
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[after Mickey reveals Dry Eye’s frozen dead body]
Matthew: It’s a tad dramatic, isn’t it, corpses in freezers? Who is this man? What’s he got to do with anything that I’m talking about?
Mickey Pearson: I take it with that statement you are in denial of so-said relationship with this frozen Chinaman?
Matthew: Well, of course I’m in denial of it. I don’t have relationships with dead, frozen Chinamen.
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Matthew: Business is business, Michael. It’s nothing personal.
Mickey Pearson: While I am not emotional about the money, there is a price indebted to me for the blood I’ve gotten on my hands restoring order to the untidiness that you created. And that price, according to you, four hundred minus one-thirty, is two hundred and seventy million dollars. And I’m keeping the business, while you are getting in the freezer. And you will make that transaction if you want to get out of the freezer. It is twenty-five below zero in there, so I assume you’ll last about an hour. That said, I wouldn’t f**k about, because frostbite is very expensive on the fingers and toes, so I would type as quickly as possible while you have the use of them.
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Mickey Pearson: As stated, I am not emotional about the money. But I am emotional about the fact that someone laid their hands on my wife. My wife! No amount of money on God’s green earth can pay for that transgression, Matthew. No, for that, I want a pound of flesh.
[he picks up a sharp knife]
Matthew: A pound of flesh?
Mickey Pearson: It matters not to me where on your anatomy it is withdrawn from. If you don’t have the stomach to take it for yourself, big Bunny here is very adept with a knife, and, as you can see, he’s dressed for the weather. But a penny short, or a gram shy, and that freezer door does not open. Am I clear? Good.
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[after Fletcher meets Ray to get his payment]
Ray: Of course we were aware of what Matthew was up to. We’re not complete f**king idiots. I’ve been onto you for a long time, Fletcher. I knew you’d been following Michael. They’re very similar, our jobs. Only I’m better at it than you are. I knew when you came over that night that you’d only be there for half an hour, to tell me how clever you are and try to blackmail us.
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Ray: You’re never going to be a predator with us, Fletcher. You’re always going to be prey.
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[after Fletcher reveals that he sold info to Aslan’s father]
Fletcher: The Russians are going to clean house. And you are part of that house, Raymond. They’re going to get Michael when he comes out of his meeting at the fish market. And they are coming here. So you see what I’ve done there? By telling you, I’ve saved your lives. Which I think in turn saves mine, doesn’t it?
[then we see Coach killing the two Russian hitmen sent to kill Ray, and Coaches boys killing the thugs who kidnapped Mickey and Fletcher escapes in the chaos]
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[we see Fletcher pitching his story about Mickey to Miramax]
Fletcher: So the Toddlers spray the car with bullets, killing the Russians. The car rolls to a stop. Smash cut to black. Titles.
Movie Producer: So, what happened to Michael? I need an ending.
Fletcher: No, no, no, my darling. What you need, is a sequel. Think it over. Have a read. You know my fee. I’m off to La La to talk to the competition. Think about that. Got a plane to catch. And I’m gone.
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[after his meeting, Fletcher gets into a cab only to find Ray is the driver]
Ray: Buenas tardes, Fletcher-mondo.
Fletcher: Raymond. Well, well, well. A man of many vocations, aren’t you?
[Fletcher tries to open the cab doors, but finds they are all locked]
Ray: Now I want you to play a game with me, Fletcher.
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[last lines; after Raymond captures Fletcher in a cab]
Rosalind Pearson: He’s got Fletcher.
Mickey Pearson: [voice over] If you wish to be the king of the jungle, it’s not enough to act like a king. You must be the king. There can be no doubt. Because doubt causes chaos and one’s own demise. My queen told me that.
[to Rosalind; referring to them having sex]
Mickey Pearson: Any chance?