— Hey, hey, it's me.
— Prove it.
— You're a dick.
— Okay.

— Why? Why?
— You don't call. You don't write. How else am I supposed to get your attention?

— Why is the moon so lonely?
— Why?
— Because she used to have a lover.

— Your country needs you.
— I'm Canadian.

— My tolerance for your smoking in the mansion notwithstanding, smoke that in here and you'll spend the rest of your days under the belief you are a six-year-old girl.
— Can you do that?
— I'd have Jean braid your hair. Welcome back.

— Oh, my God. Do you ever shut up, pal?
— No. Not when I'm awake.

— You know what happens to men who go looking for blood?
— What?
— They find it.

— Got any beer?
— This is a school.
— So that's a no?
— Yeah, that's a no.

— What exactly are you a professor of?
— Art.

— Logan, come on. Let's go.
— Go. I'll be fine.
— But we won't.

You have ten words, ten words — to explain to me why you, the Minister of Justice, would want your fiancée killed by the Yakuza. Now, if I don't like what you say, you are going through that window.