Carl: They are eating children! Fucking children.
Gum: Perhaps I can be of some assistance.
Douche: Look at her. She's a fucking cunt, bro.
Teresa: He's flawed... as are we all.
Gum: I was stuck underneath the desk of a brilliant scientist.
Firewater: We blaze for real 24/7, no joke, but we also know our shit.
Lavash: I am Kareem Abdul Lavash! And what I currently care about is that I have been... completely and utterly fucked out of being in the Great Beyond. I am to have 77 bottles of extra-virgin olive oil... waiting for me. I am destined to soak up their sweet juices... as they dribble down my flaps.
Douche: What part of "I want the sausage and the bun dead, if you see them, come and get me. And if I found out that you didn't come and get me, or if you couldn't find them, I'll fucking kill your ass." did you not understand, Tequila?
Tequila: Uh, it's a pretty confusing sentence, to be honest.
Frank: Holy shit.
Jamaican Rum: Hey, bun! Welcome to the aisle! Want to dance?
Brenda: No thank you, man. I'm quite irie, just being left alone over here, don't you know?
Gum: I am sorbitol, maltitol, xylitol, mannitol, calcium, carbonite, soy lecithin, vegetable, triglyceride and talc. But, for expediency's sake. You can call me... Gum.
Brenda: What are you saying? I should believe in nothing? That everything is pointless?
Frank: Better than believing a bunch of bullshit that you can't explain.
Brenda: Well, maybe I don't need to explain it, because it's something I feel.
Frank: Well, I feel like that makes it hard to have a rational conversation.
Brenda: F you, Frank.
Lavash: Donkey fucker.
Krinkler's Chips: Holy shit! He can actually see us?
Druggie: Bath salts are just as bad as they said it would be.
Mr. Grits: We're the Non-Perishables, motherfucker.
Twink: We never expired.
Firewater: We are... Immortal. This here's Twink and Grits.
Mr. Grits: They call me Mr. Grits.
Firewater: Eh, Mr. Grits. Whatever.
Mr. Grits: You told him about the crackers?
Druggie: You're all alive and looking at me with your... with your gloves and your... your little shoes, and your arms and your legs.
Pizza: Legs, huh? Look at me! Look at me! I ain't got no legs, you fuck! You ate my goddamn legs.
Mariachi Salsa: No way, jose.
Douche: Yes, way. Jose's fucking dead now.
Answer: Get away from me, you freaking fruits.