shitting Quotes

Amy Dunne: I'm so much happier now that I'm dead. Technically missing. Soon to be presumed dead. Gone. And my lazy lying shitting oblivious husband will go to prison for my murder. Nick Dunne took my pride and my dignity and my hope and my money. He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That's murder. Let the punishment fit the crime. To fake a convincing murder you

have to have discipline. You befriend a local idiot. Harvest the details of her hundrum life and cram her with stories about your husband's violent temper. Secretly create some money troubles: credit cards, perhaps online gambling. With the help of the unwitting, bump up your life insurance. Purchase getaway car. Craigslist. Generic. Cheap. Pay cash. You need to package yourself so that people

will truly mourn your loss. And America loves pregnant women. As if it's so hard to spread your legs. You know what's hard? Faking a pregnancy. First, drain your toilet. Invite pregnant idiot into your home and ply her with lemonade. Steal pregnant idiot's urine. Voilà! A pregnany is now part of your legal medical record. Happy Aniversary. Wait for your clueless husband to start his day. Off he

goes... and the clock is ticking. Meticulously stage your crime scene with just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt. You need to bleed. A lot. A lot, a lot. The head wound kind of bleed. A crime scene kind of bleed. You need to clean; poorly, like he would. Clean and bleed, bleed and clean. And leave a Little something behind: a fire in July? And because you're you, you don't stop there.

You need a diary. Mínimum three hundred entries on the Nick and Amy story. Start with the fairy-tale early days: those are true, and they're crucial. You want Nick and Amy to be likable. After that, you invent. The spending, the abuse, the fear, the threat of violence. And Nick thought he was the writer... burn it, just the right amount. Make sure the cops will find it. Finally, honor tradition

with a very special treasure hunt. And if I get everything right, the world will hate Nick for killing his beautiful, pregnant wife. And after all the outrage, when I'm ready, I'll go out on the water with a handful of pills and a pocket full of stones. And when they find my body, they'll know: Nick Dunne dumped his beloved like garbage, and she floated past all the other abused, unwanted,

inconvenient women. Then Nick will die too. Nick and Amy will be gone, but then we never really existed. Nick loved a girl I was pretending to be. "Cool girl". Men always use that, don't they? As their defining compliment: "She's a cool girl". Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is game. Cool girl is fun. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner. And then

presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes, so evidently he's a vinyl hipster who loves fetish Manga. If he likes girls gone wild, she's a mall babe who talks for football and endures buffalo wings at Hooters. When I met Nick Dunne I knew he wanted "Cool girl". And for him, I'll admit: I was willing to try. I wax-strippe my pussy raw. I drank canned beer watching Adam Sandler movies.

I ate cold pizza and remained a size two. I blew him, semi-regularly. I lived in the moment. I was fucking game. I can't say I didn't enjoy some of it. Nick teased out in me things I didn't know existed. A lightness, a humor, an ease. But I made him smarter. Sharper. I inspired him to rise to my level. I forged the man of my dreams. We were happy pretending to be other people. We were the happiest

couple we knew. And what's the point of being together if you're not the happiest? But Nick got lazy. He became someone I did not agree to marry. He actually expected me to love him unconditionally. Then he dragged me, penniless, to the navel of this great country and found himself a newer, younger, bouncier cool girl. You think I'd let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? No fucking way.

He doesn't get to win. My cute, charming, salt-of-the-earth Missouri guy. He needed to learn. Grown-ups work for things. Grown-ups pay. Grown-ups suffer consequences.

M. Gustave: It's quite a thing, winning the loyalty of a woman like that for nineteen consecutive seasons.
Zero: Um... yes, sir.
M. Gustave: She's very fond of me, you know.
Zero: Yes, sir.
M. Gustave: I've never seen her like that before.
Zero: No, sir.

M. Gustave: She was shaking like a shitting dog.
Zero: ...Truly.

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Do you think I'm cute, Private Pyle? Do you think I'm funny?
Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, no, sir!
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Then wipe that disgusting grin off your face.
Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir.
[tries to stop smiling]
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman:

Well, any fucking time, sweetheart!
Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, I'm trying, sir.
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Private Pyle I'm gonna give you three seconds; exactly three-fucking-seconds to wipe that stupid looking grin off your face or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you! ONE! TWO! THREE!
Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, I

can't help it, sir.
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit! Get on your knees scumbag!
[Pyle drops down to his knees]
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Now choke yourself.
[Pyle wraps his own hands around his throat]
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Goddamn it, with MY hand, numb-nuts!
[Pyle reaches for Hartman's hand]

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Don't pull my fucking hand over there! I said choke yourself; now lean forward and choke yourself!
[Pyle does so]
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Are you through grinning?
Private Gomer Pyle: [gagging] Sir, yes, sir.
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit, I can't hear you!

Private Gomer Pyle: [louder] Sir, yes, sir.
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Bullshit, I STILL can't hear you! Sound off like you've got a pair!
Private Gomer Pyle: SIR, YES, SIR!
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: That's enough! Get on your feet. Private Pyle you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany

cufflinks or I will definitely fuck you up!
Private Gomer Pyle: Sir, yes, sir.

Gavin: Tommy knew he'd caught the virus, but he never knew he'd gone full-blown.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: What was it, pneumonia or cancer?
Gavin: No, toxoplasmosis. Sort of like a stroke.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: Eh? How's that?
Gavin: He wanted to see Lizzy again. Lizzy wouldn't let him

near the house. So he bought a present for her, bought her a kitten.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: But Lizzy told him where to fucking stick it.
Gavin: Exactly. "l'm not wantin' that cat," she says. "Get the fuck," right? So there's Tommy stuck with this kitten. You can imagine what happened. The thing was neglected... pissing and shitting all over the

place. Tommy's lying about fucked out of his eyeballs... on smack or downers. He never knew you could get toxoplasmosis from cat shit.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: Neither did l. What is it?
Gavin: Fucking horrible. It's like an abscess on your brain.
Mark "Rent-boy" Renton: Fucking hell. Then what happened?

Gavin: He starts getting these headaches. So he just uses more smack, you know, for the pain. And then he has a stroke. A fucking stroke, just like that. Gets home from the hospital and dies three weeks later. He'd been dead for ages before the neighbors complained about the smell and got the police to break down the door. Tommy was lying facedown in a pool of vomit.
[long

pause]
Gavin: The kitten was fine.