Re: Monolog...
Monolog, jo i imi, i Eduart Norton tek 25th Hour. Great film, by the way.
[Monty standing in the men's bathroom talking to himself in the mirror]
Monty Brogan: F*ck me? **** you! **** you and this whole city and everyone in it. **** the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. **** the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a ******* job! **** the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in ******* training. SLOW THE **** DOWN! **** the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. **** the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? **** the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you ******* came from! **** the black-hatted Hasidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! **** the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for ******* LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a ******* break! Tyco! Worldcom! **** the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. **** the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. **** the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! **** the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the **** on! **** the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! **** the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. **** the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, **** JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J! **** Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-*** , cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish a** !
Monolog, jo i imi, i Eduart Norton tek 25th Hour. Great film, by the way.
[Monty standing in the men's bathroom talking to himself in the mirror]
Monty Brogan: F*ck me? **** you! **** you and this whole city and everyone in it. **** the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. **** the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a ******* job! **** the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in ******* training. SLOW THE **** DOWN! **** the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. **** the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? **** the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you ******* came from! **** the black-hatted Hasidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! **** the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for ******* LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a ******* break! Tyco! Worldcom! **** the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. **** the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. **** the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! **** the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the **** on! **** the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! **** the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. **** the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, **** JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J! **** Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-*** , cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish a** !
Jo vetem kaq, por edhe kur me kerkojne te vras mendjen per ndonje gje me duket mundim i madh dhe kam filluar t'ia fus kot ose t'ua pres shkurt. Tani qe e kuptoj dhe mendoj me vete qe duhet menduar ndonje gje me veten, nuk di as vete cfare 'duhet' menduar dhe e le fare duke thene qe 'e kush thote qe duhet njehere'? Ngjan me nje gjendje gjumi me syte hapur. Ndoshta vjen nga mungesa e rendesise qe po i vesh gjithckaje, ndoshta! Ose nga mungesa e perkushtimit qe me karakterizon. Ndoshta ngaqe shume gjera nuk me terheqin me vemendjen ose dhe i percmoj dhe duke i shmangur nuk behem pjese e tyre. Nuk e kam shume te qarte pse'ne! 
