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nice -
-Save the speeches for Malcolm X.
I just wanna get laid!
-You don't deserve my fucking speech.
Betty Finn was a true friend, and I sold her out
for a bunch of Swatch-dogs and Diet Coke-heads.
Killing Heather would be like offing the Wicked Witch of the West...
wait... East... West... God, I sound like a fucking psycho!
-What's your damage?
Brad says you're being a real *kuse*.
-Heather, I feel really sick, like I'm gonna throw up,
so can we please jam now?
-No! Hell No!
Tomorrow, I'll be kissing her aerobicised ass, but tonight,
let me dream of a world without Heather, a world where I am free.
-You stupid fuck!
-You goddamn bitch!
-You were nothing before you met me.
You were playing Barbies with Betty Finn.
You were a bluebird. You were a Brownie.
You were a Girl-Scout cookie.
I got you into a Remington party.
What's my thanks? It's on the hallway carpet.
I got paid in puke.
-Lick it up baby, Lick... it... up!
-Monday morning, you're history.
I'll tell everyone about tonight.
Transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson.
No-one at Westerburg's gonna let you
play their reindeer games.
-Dreadful etiquette, I apologise.
-It's okay.
-I saw the croquet setup in the back. You up for a match?
-Mmm... Thank you, that was my... first game of strip croquet.
-Well, you're welcome.
It's a lot more interesting than just flinging off your clothes and
boning away on a neighbour's swing set.
-Mmm... there's a lot to be said for throwing off your - oww!
-What a night... What a life...
They wanted to move me into high school out of the sixth grade
because I was supposed to be this big genius...
-...then we decided to chuck the idea,
because I'd have trouble making friends,
blah blah blah... Now blah blah blah is all I do.
I use my grand IQ to decide what colour gloss to wear,
and how to hit three keggers before curfew.
-Mmm... Heather Chandler is one bitch that deserves to die.
-Killing her won't solve anything.
I say we just grow up, be adults and die.
But before that,
I'd like to see Heather Chandler puke her guts out.
-Trust me, she skips the Saturday morning trip to Grandma's,
even when she's not hungover.
-We'll just concoct ourselves a little hangover cure
that'll induce her to spew red, white and blue, then.
-What about like milk and orange juice.
What's the up-chuck factor on that?
-I'm a no-rust-build-up man, myself.
-Don't be a dick. That stuff'll kill her.
-I know, we can cook up some soup, and put it in a coke.
It's... it's pretty sick, eh?
Now should it be chicken noodle or bean with bacon?
-Put a lid on that stuff.
I say we go with big blue here.
-What are you talking about?
She would never drink anything that looked like that, anyway.
-So we'll... put it in this.
She won't be able to see what she's drinking.
-It's only in a cup, jerk.
-Okay, milk and orange juice.
Mmm... well maybe we could cough up
a phlegm *globber or something*.
Oh well, milk and orange juice will do it quite nicely.
-Mmm... you chicken?
-You're not funny.
-I'm sorry. Ahh...
-Ahh... never mind. I'll... I'll carry the cup.
-Morning Heather.
-Veronica... Jesse James. Quelle surprise.
Hear about Veronica's affection for regurgitation?
-Heather, I think last night we both said
a lot of stuff we didn't mean.
-Did we? How the hell didcha get in here?
-Umm... Veronica knew you'd have a hangover,
so I whipped this up for you. It's a family recipe.
-What did you do, put a phlegm globber in it or something?
I'm not gonna drink that piss.
-I knew this stuff'd be too intense for her.
-Intense. Grow up!
You think I'll drink it just because you call me chicken?
Just give me the cup, jerk.
-Corn nuts!
-Oh my God. I can't believe it.
I just killed my best friend.
-And your worst enemy.
-Same difference.
-What're we gonna tell the cops?
Fuck it, if she can't take a joke, Searge?
-Oh the cops. I can't believe this is my
Смертельное влечение Смертельное влечение

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