Con Air

Malloy: Well of course you can't reach him. He's off saving the rain forest, or recycling his sandals or some shit.

Garland: What if I told you insane was working fifty hours a week in some office for fifty years at the end of which they tell you to piss off; ending up in some retirement village hoping to die before suffering the indignity of trying to make it to the toilet on time? Wouldn't you consider that to be insane?

Garland: He's a fountain of misplaced rage. Name your cliche; Mother held him too much or not enough, last picked at kickball, late night sneaky uncle, whatever. Now he's so angry that moments of levity actually cause him pain; give him headaches. Happiness, for that gentleman, hurts.

Malloy: This is a situation that needs to get un-fucked right now!

Garland: Define irony: a bunch of idiots dancing around on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.

Poe: There's only two men I trust. One is me. The other is not you.

Cyrus: It's not difficult to surmise Nathan's feelings towards killing these guards; and my own proclivities are well-known and often-lamented facts of penal lore.

Larkin: The degree of civilzation in a society can be judged by observing its prisioners. Dostoyevsky said that, after doing a little time.