Kim Fowley: You hear that? That's the sound of hormones raging.
Marie Currie: You took Mom's black heels?
Cherie Currie: Like, she's ever worn anything twice? Anyway, you should be more worried about her finding out about how old your skanky boyfriend is.
Marie Currie: I'm sorry. Does your boyfriend have a car? I'm sorry, do you even have a boyfriend?
Tammy: I wish I could play. I'd be in a band with you.
Joan Jett: Yeah, well you can't.
Tammy: I hear Cherie's trying the acting thing. You don't need her. You should go solo. Like Bowie. Bowie's just Bowie, he doesn't need any band.
Joan Jett: They were my songs. I wrote them. She just sang them.
Tammy: Yeah, but people always remember the singer.
Cherie Currie: I love you.
Marie Currie: I love you, too. Don't forget about the little people.
Cherie Currie: You're taller.
Kim Fowley: Cherie Currie. Cherry bomb. Sex kitten. Brigitte Bardot in a trailer park. Joan Jett. The rock 'n' roll heart, street tough brunette. Sandy West. Miss California with a joint in her mouth and a chip on her shoulder. Lita Ford. The love child of Sophia Loren and Ritchie Blackmore. You do not wanna fuck with Lita.
Joan Jett: Hey, fuckin' heckler's drill really worked. This girl threw a bottle at my face... smashed it right back at her.
Kim Fowley: You girls did the death dance in there. Showed those little punks how to cock fight.
Joan Jett: What the hell are you wearing?
Cherie Currie: I'm thinking with my cock.
Joan Jett: More like, a boner, man.
Cherie Currie: I think I'm gonna wear it.
Joan Jett: Where? To the strip club?
Kim Fowley: You dog cunts'll be lucky getting your next gig singing in the fucking shower.
