What exactly do you mean by “not likely to own a spit”?

Quail’s good, right? I mean quail can’t really be considered meat.

Fair enough, sweetheart, but I also don’t remember where in the Constitution it says I have to play nice with delusional hippies.

Then what the hell do they hang on their walls?

I might give half a damn what Moby serves if I had half a clue who the sonuvabitch was.

That’s where you’re wrong, chief. Plenty of people eat badger. I had badger for breakfast, actually.

Replace sweetbreads with chickpeas? How ’bout I replace your face with my fist?

Really? Mashed potatoes? I’m on board with that. Hot damn! We got one! Mark it down, boys! Mashed fu— Without what? Without bu— You’re shittin’ me, right? Un-fuckin’-believable.

Yes, Nugent’s Nougat does sound very cute, Tinkerbell. But, as I’ve tried to make crystal-clear, I’m not a friggin’ nancypants.

Wang Dang Sweet … Potato Pie … Pea Soup … you know, something like that. We gotta work it in somewhere.

Tofurkey? Tofuckyou.

No way. I don’t budge on this one. The muskrat tartar stays. The pansies will just have to deal.

What’s it matter? I’m gonna be killin’ it anyway.