Happy Gilmore

Shooter McGavin:
Damn you people. Go back to your shanties.

Virginia:
What's this about you breaking a rake and throwing it in the woods?

Happy Gilmore:
I didn't *break* it, I was merely testing its durability, and I *placed* it in the woods cause it's made of wood and I thought he should be with his family.

Nursing Home Orderly:
Good news, everybody, we're extending arts and crafts time by four hours today.

Elderly Woman:
My fingers hurt.

Nursing Home Orderly:
What's that?

Elderly Woman:
My fingers hurt.

Nursing Home Orderly:
Oh, well, now your back's gonna hurt, 'cause you just pulled landscaping duty. Anybody else's fingers hurt?... I didn't think so.

Happy Gilmore:
During high school, I played junior hockey and still hold two league records: most time spent in the penalty box; and I was the only guy to ever take off his skate and try to stab somebody.

Happy Gilmore:
Looks like a slight hill. Whaddya think?

Jack Beard:
And a slant to the left.

Happy Gilmore:
Nah, it looks that way cause you've only got one shoe on.

Grandma:
What happened to that nice girlfriend of yours?

Happy Gilmore:
Oh, She got hit by a car, she's dead.

Happy Gilmore:
You know my girlfriend is dead. She fell off a cliff and died on impact.

Happy Gilmore:
I'll make you a bet. If you get this puck into that net, I'll never bother you again. But if you miss, you have to give me a big fat kiss. And you have to pretend you like it too.

Virginia:
Do you always carry a puck with you?

Happy Gilmore:
Yeah.

Happy Gilmore:
Holy sh*t. Talk about your all time backfires.

Shooter McGavin:
Just stay out of my way or you'll pay, listen to what I say.

Happy Gilmore:
Hey why don't I just got and eat some hay. I can lay by the bay, make things out of clay, I just may, what'd ya say?

Shooter:
Stay out of my way or you'll pay. Listen to what I say.

Chubbs:
Back in 1965, Sports Illustrated said I was going to be the next Arnold Palmer.

Happy Gilmore:
Yeah? What happened?

Chubbs:
They wouldn't let me play on the Pro Tour anymore.

Happy Gilmore:
Ah, I'm sorry. Because you're black?

Chubbs:
Hell no! Damned alligator BIT my hand off!

Happy Gilmore:
OH MY GOD!

Chubbs:
Yeah. tournament down in Florida. I hooked my ball in the rough down by the lake. Damned alligator just POPPED up, cut me down on my prime. He got me, but I tore one of the bastard's eyes out though. Look at that.

Happy Gilmore:
You're pretty sick, Chubbs.

Chubbs:
They never let me play on the pro tour.

Happy Gilmore:
Oh I'm sorry Because your black?

Chubbs:
HELL no. Damn alligator bit my hand off!

Happy Gilmore:
OH MY GOD!

Grandma:
Sir, can I trouble you for a warm glass of milk? It helps me go to sleep.

Nursing Home Orderly:
You can trouble me for a warm glass of shut-the-hell-up. Now, you will go to sleep or I will put you to sleep. Check out the name tag. You're in my world now, grandma.

Announcer:
Quite a large and economically diverse crowd here at the Michelob Invitational.

Happy Gilmore:
If I saw myself dressed like that, I'd have to kick my own ass.

Chubbs:
It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips.

Happy Gilmore:
Get off of me.

Chubbs:
Just easing the tension, baby. Just easing the tension.

Happy Gilmore:
Yeah, well ease it on someone else.

Terry:
All you ever talk about is becoming a pro hockey player, but there's a problem: you're not any good.

Happy Gilmore:
I am good. You know what, you're a lousy kindergarten teacher. I've seen those finger-paintings you bring home and they SUCK.

Happy Gilmore:
You little son of a b*tch ball! Why you don't you just go home? That's your HOME! Are you too good for your home? ANSWER ME! SUCK MY WHITE ASS BALL!

Happy Gilmore:
Son of a b*tch ball. Why can't you go home? Aren't you good enough for your home? ANSWER ME! Suck my white ass ball!

Crazy Old Lady:
Mister! Mister! Get me outta here!

Happy Gilmore:
Here, eat that and leave us alone!

Happy Gilmore:
Happy learned how to putt, UH-OH!

Donald:
You suck! Ya Jackass!

Shooter McGavin:
Damn you people. This is golf. Not a rock concert.

Chubbs:
Golf requires concentration and focus.

Happy Gilmore:
Golf requires goofy pants and a fat ass. You should talk to my neighbor the accountant. Probably a great golfer. Huge ass.

Chubbs:
I'll bet your neighbor the accountant doesn't have a shot at joining the pro tour, and winning the championships. Get that gold jacket like I never got.

Happy Gilmore:
Gold jacket, green jacket, who gives a sh*t?

Mr. Larson:
That's two thus far, Shooter.

Shooter McGavin:
Oh, you can count. Good for you.

Mr. Larson:
And YOU can count, on ME, waiting for YOU in the parking lot.

Happy Gilmore:
That's my puck, baby, don't you ever touch my puck.

Shooter McGavin:
Stop fraternizing with the help Gilmore. Just hit your ball... if you can find it.

Happy Gilmore:
What the hell is wrong with you?

Shooter McGavin:
Well, Real Estate is a hobby of mine...

Shooter McGavin:
Ah ah. Take one more step, I burn the house and piss on the ashes.

Virginia:
What the hell is going on here

Happy Gilmore:
Erm... I was just looking for the other half of this bottle. Oh. There's some... and some more.

Shooter McGavin:
I tell you, the real winner today is the city of Portland. Every time I come here it gets hard to leave. I bet you put something to the water.

Shooter McGavin:
Thank you, Doug. You know, I saw Doug playing yesterday. And I've got to tell you, this guy spends more time on the sand than David Hasselhoff.

Happy Gilmore:
You're gonna die, clown.

Happy Gilmore:
That Son of a B*tch. Give me my ball, come on, pop it up, you dirty bastard. I swear I'm gonna... give the ball, alligator. Hey, you've got one eye, Chubbs. You took his hand.

Happy Gilmore:
I'm stupid. You're smart. I was wrong. You were right. You're the best. I'm the wrost. You're very good-looking. I'm not very attractive.

Donald:
Hey Gilmore, you suck ya jackass.

Happy Gilmore:
Why don't you shut the hell up.

Happy Gilmore:
Now you're gonna get it Bobby.

Announcer:
We haven't seen Happy Gilmore play this badly since his first day on tour. He and Bob Barker are now dead last.

Bob Barker:
I can't believe you're a professional golfer. I think you should be working at the snack bar.

Happy Gilmore:
You better relax, Bob.

Bob Barker:
There is no way that you could have been as bad at hockey as you are at golf.

Happy Gilmore:
All right, let's go.

Mr. Larson:
I believe that's Mr. Gilmore's.

Chubbs:
Spoken like a true a**hole.

Shooter McGavin:
Hey, Happy Gilmore! Come on down!

Donald:
You're gonna need a blanket and suntan lotion, cause you're never gonna get off that beach, just like the way you never got into the NHL... you jackass!

Donald:
You will not make this putt... you jackass!

Donald:
Shooter! Wanna go to the sizzler and catch some grub?

Guy on Green:
It's about time!

Happy Gilmore:
Yeah it is about time. I mean I just couldn't get the ball in the hole. I *wanted* to but I just couldn't do it.

Happy Gilmore:
That guy's driving me crazy.

Bob Barker:
You know what's driving me crazy? You not getting the ball in the hole!

Happy Gilmore:
Don't push me, Bob. Now's not the time!

Chubbs:
Golf's no different from hockey. It requires talent and self discipline.

Happy:
Golf requires goofy pants and a fat ass. You should talk to my neighbor the accountant, probably a great golfer, huge ass.

Chubbs:
Hey, I'll bet your neighbor the accountant can't drive the ball 400 yards. I'll bet your neighbor the accountant doesn't have a shot to get on the Pro Tour!

Happy:
And how would I do that?

Chubbs:
You win the Open tomorrow, and you're automatically on the Pro Tour. Then who knows, maybe you'll win the Tour Championship. Get that gold jacket that I never got.

Happy:
Gold jacket, green jacket, who gives a sh*t?

McGavin:
I eat pieces of sh*t like you for breakfast.

Happy:
You eat pieces of sh*t for breakfast?

McGavin:
No.

[McGavin takes a shot]

Mr. Larson:
Trying to reach the green from here, Shooter?

McGavin:
That's not possible, sir.

Mr. Larson:
I beg to differ, Happy Gilmore accomplished that feat no more than an hour ago.

McGavin:
(turning round and seeing Mr. Larson) Well, moron, good for Happy Gilm-OH MY GOD!!

Announcer:
We haven't seen Happy Gilmore play this badly since his first day on tour. He and Bob Barker are now dead last.

Barker:
I can't believe you're a professional golfer. I think you should be working at the snack bar.

Happy:
You better relax, Bob.

Barker:
There is no way that you could have been as bad at hockey as you are at golf.

Happy:
All right. Let's go!

[he punches Barker in the face]

Happy:
You like that, old man?! You want a piece of me?!

Barker:
[shakes his head as he get up from the ground] I don't want a piece of you. I want the whole THING!

[he repeatedly punches Happy vigorously until he hits the water]

Happy:
[angrily emerges from the water] Now you're gonna get it, Bobby!

[he and Barker continue fighting, and they roll down the hill, until Happy conks Barker in the head and gets back on his feet]

Man from behind:
[cheers Happy on] Happy!

Happy:
The Price is wrong, b*tch!

[Barker suddenly chokes Happy and punches him 3 times]

Barker:
I think you've had enough.

[Happy tries to get back up again]

Barker:
No?

[he kicks Happy in the face once more]

Barker:
Now you've had enough. [sets off, then turns back to Happy] B*tch.

Mover:
You hit that guy!

Happy:
He shouldn't have been standing there.

[After Happy's ball went through the tower and into the hole]

Happy:
Oh, my God!

[The crowd cheers and surrounds Happy]

Verne Lundquist:
This is incredible! Happy Gilmore wins the gold jacket.

Shooter:
No! No!

[Shooter bends down in defeat and agony. Happy kisses Virginia, his grandmother and Otto]

Happy:
I love you, you and you.

Shooter:
Doug! Doug! Impossible! That's mine! My jacket! It's mine!

[Shooter steals Happy's gold jacket from Doug, and runs away]

Happy:
Hey! He stole my jacket!

Mr. Larson:
I believe that is Mr. Gilmore's jacket!

[In slow-motion, Shooter runs as he puts on Happy's jacket. The crowd chases him. Larson angrily growls as he swings his arms]

Mr. Larson:
I'll get you, Shooter!

Man:
We're gonna get you, you bastard!

[Shooter screams, then collapses offscreen as the crowd attacks him]

Shooter:
No! Get off! Ow! Get off! Get off!

Mr. Larson:
Stay still!

[A punch is heard]

Shooter:
No!!!

[A loud smack is heard as Shooter screams in pain]