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bet he's hatching some half-assed, vodka-soaked scheme to... |
hello? ha! |
sterling? sterling, listen very... wha...? voicemail. |
you know what to do. |
we're sorry. |
damn it. |
carol? carol. and just where the hell is she? |
oh, god, sorry. sorry. |
ahh... |
what are you doing? |
i thought you said start slacking off. |
not slacking off. dude, swear to god. |
she gave me a jane hathaway. |
right on my chest. |
my man knows what i'm talking about. |
doesn't anyone work around here? |
and cyril... |
i am so disgusted with you right now i just wanna vomit. |
that's exactly what i said to lana. |
thirty-seven. thirty-seven. |
ooh. |
uh... move. |
ugh. just get it done by friday. |
oh, come on sterling, pick up, pick... |
sterling? sterling? |
what's wrong, are you in...? ha. alternate voicemail. |
you know what to do, stupid. |
we're sorry... |
i'm done. |
he's dead to me. |
mother. |
kill mother. |
oh, my god, i'm exhausted. |
whereas i am merely confused. |
if you told every guy the same thing... then they all know that none of them had sex with you. |
they're all gonna realize they're all lying. |
hey, yeah. |
wait a minute. |
but remember, they're dudes. |
what? |
um... |
i had sex with lana. |
me too. |
lana kane, you magnificent bastard. |
mwah. |
i just hope cyril don't, like, snap. |
cyril? snap? |
snap. |
girl, please. |
seven, six, two, millimeter... full metal jacket... |
someone's in here. |
holy shit snacks. |
you made over 20 grand. |
minus my sixty bucks. |
plus cyril's broken heart. |
not too shabs, pam. |
are you kidding? 36 guys? |
it's like schindler's list up in here. |
pam! |
and i'm like that little gandhi dude. |
pam. |
helping out with the books, and... inappropriate analogies? |
what the hell is wrong with you? |
nothing. |
i'm a desirable... full-bodied woman but nobody will have sex with me. |
and i have so much love to give. |
get on the desk. |
really? |
yeah, come on. |
before i change my mind. |
but you cannot say a word. |
i won't tell anybody. |
no, honey, i mean during. |
cause i'm gonna pretend you're alex karras. |
and that's your message? |
my god, who...? |
who's there? what do you want? |
because all you're gonna get is holes. |
i... |
i mean holes in you... not |
my... hah! sterling? |
hello, mother. where the hell have you been? |
i don't know. |
and why do you have a cleaver? |
i don't know. |
well, you're safe now. so get out. |
i'm hungry. |
so lick that coat. |
you smell like a... grilled cheese. |
what? |
grill me a cheese. |
i'm not grilling you a cheese. |
oh, for god's sake. |
waltz in here, dressed like some sort of cattle-rapist. |
waving a cleaver and reeking of what i hope to god is meat. |
and that's all you have to say? |
i don't know. |
i was worried sick. called you twice... came this close to leaving... and why doesn't your voicemail just say, leave a message, i'm a jackass? |
i don't know. |
i don't know. |
Subsets and Splits