Found 431 results
1m5s
- But still, you play with matches, you get burned. - What do you mean? You don't be givin' Marsellus Wallace's new bride a foot massage. You don't think he overreacted? Antwan didn't expect Marsellus to react the way he did, but he had to expect a reaction. It was a foot massage. A foot massage is nothin'. I give my mother a foot massage. It's laying your hands in a familiar way on Marsellus's new wife. I mean, is it as bad as eatin' her pussy out? No, but it's the same fuckin' ballpark. Whoa, stop right there. Eatin' the bitch out... and givin' the bitch a foot massage ain't even the same fucking thing. - It's not. It's the same ballpark. - Ain't no fuckin' ballpark neither. Now, look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine. But touchin' his wife's feet and sticking your tongue in the holiest of holies... ain't the same fuckin' ballpark; it ain't the same league; it ain't the same fuckin' sport. - Foot massages don't mean shit! - Have you ever given a foot massage? [ Scoffs ] Don't be tellin' me about foot massages. - I'm the foot fuckin' master. - You given a lot of them? Shit, yeah! Got my technique down and everything. I don't be ticklin' or nothin'. Would you give a guy a foot massage?
Pulp Fiction
1m35s
- Thank you. - You're welcome. I mean, the way it is now, you're takin' the same risk as when you rob a bank. Takin' more of a risk. Banks are easier. Federal banks ain't supposed to stop you in any way during a robbery. They're insured. Why should they give a fuck? I don't even need a gun in a Federal bank. Heard about this one bloke, he walks into a bank with a portable phone. He gives the phone to a teller. The bloke on the other end says, "We got this guy's little girl. If you don't give him all your money, we're gonna kill her." - Did it work? - Fuckin' right it worked. That's what I'm talkin' about. Knucklehead walks into a bank with a telephone. Not a pistol, not a shotgun, a fuckin' phone. - Cleans the place out. They don't lift a fuckin' finger. - Did they hurt the little girl? There probably never was a little girl. The point of the story isn't a little girl. The point of the story is they robbed a bank with a telephone. - You want to rob banks? - I'm not saying I wanna rob banks. I'm illustrating if we did, it'd be easier than what we've been doing. -No more liquor stores? -What've we been talkin' about? Yeah, no more liquor stores. Besides, it ain't the giggle it used to be. There's too many foreigners own liquor stores. Vietnamese, Koreans, don't even speak fuckin' English. You tell 'em empty out the register, they don't know what you're talkin' about. They make it too personal. - We keep on, one of these gook fuckers gonna make us kill him. - I'm not gonna kill anybody. I don't want to either. But they'll probably put us in a situation where it's us or them. And if it's not the gooks, it's these old fuckin' Jews who've owned the store for 15 fucking generations. You got Grandpa lrving sitting behind the counter with a fucking Magnum in his hand. Try walkin' into one of those places with nothing but a phone. See how far that gets you. Forget it. - We're out of it. - Well, what then, day jobs? - Not in this life. - What then?
Pulp Fiction
48.5s
This watch was on your daddy's wrist when he was shot down over Hanoi. He was captured, put in a Vietnamese prison camp. He knew if the gooks ever saw the watch, it'd be confiscated, taken away. The way your dad looked at it, this watch was your birthright. He'd be damned if any slope's gonna put their greasy, yellow hands on his boy's birthright, so he hid it in one place he knew he could hide something- his ass. Five long years he wore this watch up his ass. Then he died of dysentery- He give me the watch. I hid this uncomfortable hunk of metal up my ass two years. Then... after seven years, I was sent home to my family and... now...
Pulp Fiction