- Man in Jail: I don't like your brassiere.
- Lacie: I don't like your mustache.
- Man in Jail: I don't like your aura.
- Lacie: My aura?
- Man in Jail: Yeah.
- Lacie: I don't like... your... head. Your entire head is just ridiculous to me.
- Man in Jail: Really?
- Lacie: You look like an alcoholic former weatherman.
- Truck Driver: Eight years ago, Tom, my husband, got cancer. It was pancreatic, a real bitch. The symptoms showed up late.
- Lacie: I'm so sorry.
- Truck Driver: You don't know me, so you're not really sorry. You're just mainly awkward 'cause I have sprung some cancer talk at you.
- Lacie: The little girl who, when we were just five-years-old in art camp, started talking to me because she saw I was scared and helped me make Mr. Rags.
- Lacie: He reminds me of you and what you meant to me then! And I'm so honored to be here to see this shit! I love you, Nay-Nay! I've always loved you! I love you!
- Lacie: We'd talk about all the things girls talk about, you know, boys, hair, products, uh... more boys.
- [laughs]
- Lacie: I mean, I tried sometimes to expand our range a little and talk about climate change, but she found that kind of boring so - Go on. She was probably right. I mean, fuck the planet, right?
- [laughs]
- Lacie: Whoo! Yes, thank you! Come on. Let's have a little fun here. You know, fuck the planet!
- [laughs]
- Lacie: -
- [shouts]
- Lacie: Fuck the planet! -
- [feedback]
- Lacie: [crockery rattles]