ask "what's your major?"
I hate that.
So, when you go to college,
what subjects do you think you'll study?
Come on, David.
Shouldn't we get back to the party?
We will.
It's just you're so hot tonight.
I can't control myself.
'I can't explain it but
I'm allowed an understanding
'that my parents and these
Remington assholes have chosen to ignore.
'I understand that I must stop Heather.'
How's my little cheerleader, huh?
Oh, I know everyone
at your high school isn't so uptight.
- Come on.
- I don't feel so good, OK?
Let's do it on the coats.
It'll be excellent, huh?
I have a prepared speech I tell my suitor
when he wants more
than I'd like to give him.
Gee, blank, I had a really nice...
Save the speeches for Malcolm X.
I just want to get laid.
You don't deserve my fucking speech.
'Betty Finn was a true friend
and I sold her out
'for a bunch of Swatchdogs
and Diet Cokeheads.
'Killing Heather would be like offing
the Wicked Witch of the West.
'Wait, East. West!
I sound like a fucking psycho.'
What's your damage?
Brad says you're being a cooze.
I feel really sick, like I'm gonna throw up.
Can we please jam now?
No. Hell, no.
(Retching)
'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.
That's OK.
I saw the croquet set up in the back.
You up for a match?
Mmm! I thank you.
That was my first game of strip croquet.
You're welcome.
It's a lot more interesting
than just flinging off your clothes
and boning away
on a neighbour's swing set.
There's lots to be said for throwing off...
Ow!
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.
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 love to see Heather Chandler
puke her guts out.
Trust me, she skips
the Saturday morning trip to grandma's
even when she's not hung over.
We'll just concoct ourselves
a little hangover cure
that'll induce her to spew
red, white and blue, then.
What about 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 will kill her.
I know, we can cook up some soup
and put it in a Coke.
That's pretty sick, eh?
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.
Let me get a cup, jerk.
OK.
(Veronica) Milk and orange juice. Hmm.
Maybe we could, like, cough up
a phlegm globber in it or something.
- No?
- Nothing.
Oh, well. Milk and orange juice
will do quite nicely.
You're chicken.
You're not funny.
I'm sorry.
- Uh, Veronica?
- What?
Uh, never mind. I'll, er, carry the cup.
(Veronica) Morning, Heather.
Veronica... and Jesse James.
Quelle surprise.
Hear about Veronica's
affection for regurgitation?
Last night we both
said things we didn't mean.
Did we?
How did