SAMUEL L.: So listen up, here, Ricci. I'm going to tell it like it motherf***ing IS.
CHRISTINA: What? You don't like the dress? Are you kidding me? I didn't get all dolled up in this awesome fuschia gown just so...
SAMUEL L.: Chill out, Christina, you look great, but I'm going to tell you one thing: It's motherf***ing COLD outside!
CHRISTINA: I know, but seriously, I look totally hot, and I just thought...
SAMUEL L.: Listen, I know you thought, "Oh, Samuel L. is a wacky old mess, showing up in that weird motherf***ing argyle sweater..."
CHRISTINA: It DOES look a little bit like you stole it from the notebook of the Physics Club president, who was designing it for their national competitions.
SAMUEL L.: Did I ask for your motherf***ing input, motherf***er? I don't CARE if you think my sweater looks like it's waiting for some snot-nosed 16-year old motherf***er to go through a gangsta-thermodymanics phase, o-motherf***ing-kay?
CHRISTINA: Uh...
SAMUEL L.: And I don't CARE if you're motherf***ing tired of seeing me with motherf***ing hats on, and I don't EVEN care if my coat looks to you like I think I'm in motherf***ing Wisconsin hunting motherf***ing deer. You get me?
CHRISTINA: It's... a little help here, anyone?
SAMUEL L.: I'm Samuel motherf***ing L. motherf***ing Jackson, okay? And not only do I wear whatever the motherf**** I want, but I look motherf***ing FINE in it, too, because I am a BAD-motherf***ing-ASS. And what this bad-motherf***ing-ass wants to tell you is, you look COLD in your sleeveless dress with your pink frostnipped frozen face, okay? So maybe you should faux-fur-line that motherf***er, or buy a hat, or a motherf***ing mathlete-quality argyle sweater, before your arms fall off. CAN YOU MOTHERF***ING DIG IT?
CHRISTINA: You know what? You're right. It is cold, and my face is about to freeze off. I can dig it, Samuel L., I motherf***ing CAN!
SAMUEL L.: Damn, girl, watch your language. There's really no call for that kind of talk. Lord! Somebody get this girl some mouth-soap.
