Boys in the Band

Michael:
What's so f***ing funny?

Harold:
Life. Life's a goddamn laugh riot.

Harold:
Who is she? Who was she? Who does she hope to be?

Michael:
What is he - a psychiatrist or a hairdresser?

Donald:
Actually he's both. He shrinks my head and then combs me out.

Donald:
Thanks to the silver screen your neurosis has got style.

Michael:
Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I didn't go around announcing I was a f*ggot.

Emory:
Who do you have to f*** to get a drink around here?

Michael:
It's not always the way it is in plays. Not all faggots bump themselves off at the end of the story!

Michael:
There's one thing to be said about masturbation: you certainly don't have to look your best.

Michael:
Donald, you are a real card carrying c*nt.

Cowboy:
I lost my grip doing my chin ups and fell on my heels and twisted my back.

Emory:
You shouldn't wear heels when you do chin ups!

Emory:
Ooh, I'd love to me him. Or her. I have such a problem pronouns.

Alan:
How many S's are in the word pronoun?

Emory:
How'd you like to kiss my ass? That's got two S's in it.

Alan:
How would you like to blow me?

Emory:
What's the matter, you're wife got lockjaw?

Hank:
Would you mind waiting over there with the gifts?

Michael:
You're stoned and you're late. You were supposed to arrive at this location at eight thirty dash nine o'clock.

Harold:
What I am Michael is a 32 year-old, ugly, pock marked Jew fairy, and if it takes me a little while to pull myself together, and if I smoke a little grass before I get up the nerve to show my face to the world, it's nobody's god damned business but my own. And how are you this evening?

Harold:
You're lips are turning blue. You look like you've been rimming a snowman.

Harold:
I keep my grass in the medicine cabinet in the Band Aid box. Somebody told me it's the safest place. If the cops arrive, you can always lock yourself in the bathroom and flush it down the john.

Hank:
Very cagey.

Harold:
Makes more sense to where I was keeping it: in the oregano jar in the spice rack. I kept forgetting it and accidentally turning my hateful mother on with a salad. But I think she liked it. No matter what meal she comes over for, even if it was breakfast, she says

Harold:
"Let's have a salad!"

Harold:
How's the bathroom smell?

Michael:
Before it smelled like someone puked. Now it smells like someone puked in a gardenia patch.

Harold:
You're a sad and pathetic man. You're a homosexual and you don't want to be, but there is nothing you can do to change it. Not all the prayers to you god, not all the analysis you can buy in all the years you've got left to live. You may one day be able to know a heterosexual life, if you want it desperately enough, if you pursue it with the fervor with which you annihilate......but you'll always be homosexual as well. Always, Michael. Always, until the day you die.

Looks kinda like spaghetti and meatballs flattened out.