Spitball Army

Everything about this L.A. noir is so over the top, it nearly exists in its own genre universe. Let’s call it “camp noir.” A femme fatale with a stately British accent; a character named Jojo; a mystery drug that revives gassed convicts to life. Nurse: Why don’t you talk to me anymore? Aren’t you listening? […]

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“I love you. Ever since that first day at the convent, when I saw you playing volleyball with the nuns, I couldn’t help myself.” – Spoken dialogue in Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets.

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Client: Hi.

Therapist: Yep. (fast, almost sounds like the same voice saying, “Hiyep”)

Client: How’re ya doin’?

Therapist: Fine, what’s up. (curt and quick, almost telegraphic)

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So, my Dad still won’t let me have any money. He said he didn’t have any, but now he’s saying that I can’t have it, so that sounds like he actually has some, which means he was lying about not having any money because if I can’t have it that means there’s some money there, right?

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Once the city gets into a bohoy’s syhystem, he loses his ahankering for the cohuntry.

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Mother, that man there wants to take your picture. Let’s dance!!

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