Why don't you make like a tree...
and get the FUCK outta here!
>he... RAPED me!
- Told you he was kinky. You should make up your fucking mind, Ali.
Dennis hopper in blue velvet
Are you desirable? Are you irresistible? Maybe if you drank bourbon with me, it would help. Maybe if you kissed me and I could taste the sting in your mouth it would help. If you drank bourbon with me naked. If you smelled of bourbon as you fucked me, it would help. It would increase my esteem for you. If you poured bourbon onto your naked body and said to me "drink this". If you spread your legs and you had bourbon dripping from your breasts and your pussy and said "drink here" then I could fall in love with you. Because then I would have a purpose. To clean you up and that, that would prove that I'm worth something. I'd lick you clean so that you could go away and fuck someone else.
Eddie Barzoon, Eddie Barzoon... Ha! I nursed him through two divorces, a cocaine rehab, and a pregnant receptionist. God's creature, right? God's special creature. I've warned him, Kevin. I've warned him every step of the way. Watching him bounce around like a fucking game. Like a wind-up toy. Like 250 pounds of self-serving greed on wheels. The next thousand years is right around the corner. Eddie Barzoon... Take a good look, because he's the poster child for the next millennium. These people, it's no mystery where they come from.
You sharpen the human appetite to the point where it can split atoms with its desire. You build egos the size of cathedrals. Fiber-optically connect the world to every eager impulse. Grease even the dullest dreams with these dollar-green, gold-plated fantasies until every human becomes an aspiring emperor, becomes his own god. Where can you go from there? As we're scrambling from one deal to the next, who's got his eye on the planet? As the air thickens, the water sours, even the bees' honey takes on the metallic taste of radioactivity. And it just keeps coming, faster and faster. There's no chance to think, to prepare—it's "buy futures", "sell futures", when there is no future. We got a runaway train, boy. We got a billion Eddie Barzoons all jogging into the future. Every one of them is getting ready to fistfuck God's ex-planet, lick their fingers clean, as they reach out toward their pristine cybernetic keyboards to tot up their fucking billable hours. And then it hits home. You got to pay your own way, Eddie. It's a little late in the game to buy out now. Your belly's too full, your dick is sore, your eyes are bloodshot, and you're screaming for someone to help. But guess what? There's no one there! You're all alone, Eddie. You're God's special little creature. Maybe it's true. Maybe God threw the dice once too often. Maybe he let us all down.
Hope is a good thing Red, maybe the best of things. And a no good thing never dies.