The Pepto?” I asked.“The Pepto,” he sighed and read the label. “Yes, the Pepto. This, yes. The candies. They’re in here. I found them, yes. I found them here. You. You were sleeping. I found these. They’re yours, yes? I want them. If I can have them. These. These Pepto. Oh… yes. If I can have them I’d be grateful, yes… I’d follow you. I’d follow you now until the day you die. From now until then, yes. I’d follow you and I would be your one true compatriot. The Don Quixote to your Sancho Panza, the Batman to your Robin, the Huckleberry Finn to your Nigger Jim. Yours. You. And… hm… yes. From then on I’d do what you ask of me. As your one true ally to do what you need. I’d be the best friend you have. Best. All I ask for, to be yours until forever, is that you bestow upon me these delightful morsels I have found of yours for my consumptive pleasure.”“Yes,” I said, not thinking twice. “Take it. Eat’em.”“Eat’em, great,” he said. “Yes. A strange name, but I like it. That’s what you will call me then. Eat’em. Thank you for this.
If lust and hate is the candyif blood and love tastes so sweetthen we give 'em what they wantHey, hey, give 'em what they wantSo their eyes are growing hazy 'cause they want to turn it on so their minds are soft and lazyWell, hey, give 'em what they wantIf lust and hate is the candyif blood and love tastes so sweetthen we give 'em what they wantSo their eyes are growing hazy 'cause they want to turn it onso their minds are soft and lazyWell who do you want to blame?Hey, hey, give 'em what they wantIf lust and hate is the candyif blood and love tastes so sweetthen we give 'em what they wantSo their eyes are growing hazy 'cause they want to turn it on so their minds are soft and lazy.Well who do you want to blame?
If you cant beat 'em cooperate 'em to death!
Our lives are like these things I make. Turn 'em, build 'em, bake 'em in fire. That's what you've been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don't have the right to choose whether he be for water, wine, or just left empty. You have, son. You have.
You don't hurt 'em if you don't hit 'em.
Women... can't live with 'em... can't shoot 'em.
Somerset House in London where at one time English vital statistics were kept - birth marriage and death records - was known as the egg factory "where they hatch 'em match 'em and dispatch 'em."
You don't hurt 'em if you don't hit 'em.
Books... are like lobster shells, we surround ourselves with 'em, then we grow out of 'em and leave 'em behind, as evidence of our earlier stages of development.
Lucy: I don't understand men.Nettie: What is there to understand? If you feed 'em regular-like and give 'em a bit of 'sugar' now and then, they're easy enough. And if they don't behave, you just toss 'em out on their arses. That's what I always say.