A monologue from the screenplay written by Mike Myers
The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery.
My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark.
Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.
At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my t*sticles. There really is nothing like a shorn scr*tum, it’s breathtaking, I suggest you try it.
This afternoon, I couldn’t decide between a tamale and a tuna melt, but my life made sense. And now, I know exactly what I want, and my life doesn’t make any sense.
And I was doing fine this afternoon, I was doing great! That was me then. But I don’t know, somewhere between the tuna melt and your aunt’s tamales… and they were really great.
I was afraid that I had already met the woman of my dreams at the dry cleaner’s or something and I was just too busy to notice. But now I’m here and I see that that’s not true because.. it’s you. Isabel, you’re the one!
You are everything I never knew I always wanted. I’m not even sure what that means exactly, but I think it has something to do with the rest of my life! And I think we should get married. Right now!
A monologue from the screenplay written by Quentin Tarantino
Let me tell you what “Like a Virgin’” is about. It’s all about a girl who digs a guy with a big d*ck. The entire song, it’s a metaphor for big d*cks. Like a Virgin’s not about some sensitive girl who meets a nice fella.
That’s what True Blue’s about. Now, granted, no argument about that…Let me tell you what Like a Virgin’s about. It’s all about this cooze who’s a regular f***machine.
I’m talkin’ morning, day, night, afternoon, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck, d*ck… Then one day, she meets this John Holmes motherf***er, and it’s like, whoa baby. I mean, this cat is like Charles Bronson in “The Great Escape”.
He’s digging tunnels. She’s getting this serious d*ck action and she’s feelin’ something she ain’t felt since forever. Pain. Pain. It hurts. It hurts her. It shouldn’t hurt her. You know, her pu**y should be Bubble Yum by now, but when this cat f***s her, it hurts.
It hurts just like it did the first time. You see, the pain is reminding a f*** machine what it was once like to be a virgin. Hence … Like a Virgin.
Listen to me. Dale, look, when I was a kid…when I was a little boy, I always wanted to be a dinosaur. I wanted to be a Tyrannosaurus rex more than anything in the world.
I made my arms short and I roamed the backyard…and I chased the neighborhood cats, and I growled and I roared. Everybody knew me and was afraid of me.
And then one day, my dad said, “Bobby, you’re 17. It’s time to throw childish things aside.” And I said, “Okay, Pop.” But he didn’t really say that, he said, “Stop being a f***ing dinosaur and get a job.”
But, you know, I thought to myself, “I’ll go to medical school…l’ll practice for a little while, and then I’ll come back to it. […] But I forgot how to do it. […] Hey, I lost it.
A monologue from the screenplay by Babaloo Mandel and Lowell Ganz
‘Value this time in your life kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so quickly. When you’re a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do.
Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, “What happened to my twenties?” In your forties, you grow a little pot belly you grow another chin.
The music starts to get too loud and one of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Your fifties you have a minor surgery. You’ll call it a procedure, but it’s a surgery.
Your sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. The seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before.
And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt and muttering “how come the kids don’t call?”
By your eighties, you’ve had a major stroke, and you end up babbling to some Jamaican nurse who your wife can’t stand but who you call mama. Any questions?’
A monologue from the screenplay by Michael Diliberti and Matthew Sullivan
I remember the summer after my mother passed was the first year they had the Monopoly game at McDonald’s. I musta come here three times a day trying to collect all the game pieces.
Packed on 20 pounds, got acne from all the grease. The Major said I was the fattest, ugliest 13-year-old he ever laid eyes on. But I didn’t care, I just wanted to win the money and get the f— out of there.
So, one night, I followed this skinny register kid home, jumped him. I kept whaling on him, asking him where they were hiding the Park Place piece. The million dollar prize.
But he didn’t know s—. A year later, The Major won the lotto. I asked him for a Sega Genesis. He bought me one of those paddles with the ball attached.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve gone through some dark times since then. Depression. Addiction to a variety of s—, which I won’t go into.
I know you must think that’s pretty silly, especially since you manage to get through the day and you don’t got s— going on as compared to me. But that’s just the way it is. That’s life.
A monologue from the screenplay by Quentin Tarantino
SS Colonel Hans Landa
Monsieur LaPadite, are you aware of the nickname the people of France have given me? … But you are aware of what they call me. …
What are you aware of? … [“The Jew Hunter.” ]… Precisely. I understand your trepidation in repeating it.
Heydrich apparently hates the moniker the good people of Prague have bestowed on him. Actually, why he would hate the name “the Hangman” is baffling to me.
It would appear he has done everything in his power to earn it. Now I, on the other hand, love my unofficial title precisely because I’ve earned it.
The feature that makes me such an effective hunter of the Jews is, as opposed to most German soldiers, I can think like a Jew where they can only think like a German.
More precisely, a German soldier. Now, if one were to determine what attribute the German people share with a beast, it would be the cunning and the predatory instinct of a hawk.
But if one were to determine what attributes the Jews share with a beast, it would be that of the rat.
The Fuhrer and Goebbels’ propaganda have said pretty much the same thing. But where our conclusions differ, is I don’t consider the comparison an insult.
Consider for a moment the world a rat lives in. It’s a hostile world, indeed. If a rat were to scamper through your front door, right now, would you greet it with hostility? …
Has a rat ever done anything to you to create this animosity you feel toward them?
Rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that’s some time ago. I propose to you any disease a rat could spread, a squirrel could equally carry.
Would you agree? Yet, I assume you don’t share the same animosity with squirrels that you do with rats, do you?
Yet, they’re both rodents, are they not? And except for the tail, they even rather look alike, don’t they?
However interesting as the thought may be, it makes not one bit of difference to how you feel. If a rat were to walk in here, right now, as I’m talking would you greet it with a saucer of your delicious milk?
I didn’t think so. You don’t like them. You don’t really know why you don’t like them. All you know is you find them repulsive.
Consequently, a German soldier conducts a search of a house suspected of hiding Jews. Where does the hawk look?
He looks in the barn, he looks in the attic, he looks in the cellar, he looks everywhere he would hide. But there are so many places it would never occur to a hawk to hide.
However, the reason the Fuhrer has brought me off my Alps in Austria and placed me in French cow country today is because it does occur to me.
Because I’m aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity. May I smoke my pipe as well? …
Now, my job dictates that I must have my men enter your home and conduct a thorough search before I can officially cross your family’s name off my list.
And if there are any irregularities to be found, rest assured they will be. That is unless you have something to tell me that makes the conducting of a search unnecessary.
I might add, also, that any information that makes the performance of my duty easier will not be met with punishment.
Actually, quite the contrary. It will be met with reward.
And that reward will be, your family will cease to be harassed in any way by the German military during the rest of our occupation of your country.
You’re sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?