Top 5 Rip Torn Movie Lines

When he’s not robbing banks in upstate Connecticut, Rip Torn is delivering movie lines in memorable fashion. Here are the top 5 Rip Torn movie lines, based both on content and delivery:

Rip can wear the shit out of a 3-piece suit.

5) “My sweet dick, it’s magic!” – as Patches O’Houlihan, Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story

4) “You sorry little ingrates!” – as Agent Zed, Men in Black

3) “Is it necessary for me to drink my own urine? No, but I do it anyway because it’s sterile and I like the taste.” – as Patches O’Houlihan, Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story

2) “Big Bearrrrrr!” – as attorney Bob Diamond, Defending Your Life

1) “And will someone catch a goddamn ball? It’s like watching a bunch of retards trying to hump a doorknob out there!” – as Patches O’Houlihan, Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story

If you want to watch the underrated Defending Your Life, go back to 2003 and watch one of the HBO’s for 7 minutes. If you want to watch Dodgeball, just get your Patches fix below. If you want to watch Men in Black, hit yourself in the face with a wet dishtowel.

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How to Beat the Breathalyzer

Whether you’re a Cincinnati Bengal or just John Q. Boozebag, these three simple tricks will keep you drunk behind the wheel…where you belong.

Potato Method
Ever wonder why some people keep a bag of potatoes in their car? As any scientician or doctorcologist will tell you, nothing stymies the booze molecules like carbohydrates. Career alcoholics and Congressmen keep a trusty bag of spuds in their passenger seat at all times- and you can too. As soon as you’re pulled over by a police officer after a night of binge-drinking, yank out a potato and take a big bite…the more potato you can get into your system the better off you’ll be. Gobble the spud while he turns on his spotlight and sits in his car for sixty seconds trying to intimidate you. The laugh will be on Officer Killjoy!

After his last DUI, Joba Chamberlain always drives with taters at his side.

The starch in potatoes counteracts the enzymes in alcohol and form a sobriety molecule- the Soby- that tells the breathalyzer that everything is groovy. You may not walk a straight line, but the Boozometer says you’re just fine! Resist the temptation to offer the policeman a potato after he lets you go… it has become clichéd and insulting. Now you know why Idaho has the fewest DUI’s per capita! (Note: Only white potatoes are effective in beating the breathalyzer, as sweet potatoes can only be used for beating a lie detector.)

You knew the good folks at Apple would be all over breathalyzer technology, and for once you knew correctly the first time around! The iLush is a microscopic transponder chip that re-routes a Breathalyzer’s silicon oxide sensors to a photovoltaic proxy server in Cupertino, California, where a remote satellite returns falsified spectrophotometer readings that report a consistent blood-alcohol level of 0.02%- well beneath the legal limit! The iLush is reasonably priced at only $29.95, but the trick is getting it into the breathalyzer without the officer spotting it.

Thanks to the iLush, Nolte is now DUI-free!

The instructions are simple: Remove the calibration panel of the breathalyzer unit and access the distribution board. Locate the acetic acid capacitor and remove the integrated fuel cell chip using tweezers. Discard discreetly. Next, solder the iLush transponder chip into place, being sure to employ goggles for eye protection. (Note: Use a heat sink to disperse the soldering iron’s heat source from spreading across the local area of the circuit board or you may cause blistering and delaminating of the circuit board’s layers.) Next you’ll need to enable the link between the iLush and its servers, which can be easily achieved by sending an ICMP echo request through your cell phone or portable device. Once a confirmation response packet is received, you’re good to blow with the best of them!

In order to implement the iLush it is suggested you create a diversion so the Officer does not notice your modifications to the breathalyzer unit. Try starting a conversation about local sports teams, or inquiring about the fidelity of his wife. With swift hands and proper concentration, the iLush will keep you swerving and weaving for years to come!

Punch ‘n Run
This is a crude but surprisingly effective method at avoiding liquor lockup. The Punch ‘n Run consists of two major steps, the proper order of which is essential to successful execution

Step One: Punch
Get out of your car as the arresting officer approaches you. Rear back with your closed fist- or brick, if available- and hit the police officer’s head with as much impact as possible. If done correctly the policeman should spontaneously discharge blood, saliva, and/or teeth. Depending upon his mood he may fall to the ground or allow his skull to split open as a result of the blunt-force trauma you’ve just delivered. Ignore any unusual sounds or anecdotes that may be emanating from his mouth at this time: he’s more scared than you are, and probably not making very much sense.

The only thing JB enjoys more than beating women is the Punch 'n Run!

Step Two: Run
You’d be genuinely surprised at how many people forget this fundamental part of the plan. Place one foot in front of the other and repeat, escalating in speed, preferably in the opposite direction of the blinding blue lights from the police officer’s squad car. Abandoning your own automobile at this point is necessary, but not a problem, because it can never be traced back to you and your insurance company will surely reimburse you for its total value. While you’re running you should feel free to observe the beauty of the world around you, and to ponder the mystery of creation, or the miracle of consciousness. When this gets old feel free to stop into the nearest bar and order another drink. You… you’ve earned it.

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Tough Lunches of the 21st Century

April 14, 2006 – “Heartbreaker”
Location: Bennigan’s Brewhouse & Beefbarn
This was when my first wife dropped the bomb on me. We had gone out that day for the Steak & Nearly-Nonstop Salad Bar Special, but the woman didn’t even let me finish my plate of Slammin’ Jammin’ Mozzerella Sticklets before she made with the mouth-foul.

“I find you simple and unfunny,” she said, but there was something about the tone in her voice that made me feel like she meant it this time.

“Consider this your two-week notice,” she said, “I’m going to Mexico and not coming back. Our marriage is over and you are sexually inadequate.”

I took it like a man, sobbing in hysterics and immediately emptying my water glass over my head. She kept her word about the Mexico thing and winning custody of all my possessions, but the Sticklets were delicious!

November 18, 2001 – “The Time I Forgot Texas” (AKA “The Lone-Star Lunch”)
Location: The Texas Cheeseburger Factory
I was on a business lunch with some co-workers and we were eating burgers the size of spare tires. I was drowning my Freedom Fries in mustard when somebody asked me, “What state is this?”

Predictably, I blanked. Having lived here all my life I had taken so much for granted, and it had finally caught up with me. My stomach locked, my lunch rose up my throat and I made hot vomit right there on the table and plates. My tablemates balked, disgusted, and that’s when I had to punch them. I was escorted out of the restaurant by two goons named Nico and fired from my job.

I learned my lesson, though- it was Texas.

May 9 2009 – “Wildcard”
Location: Public Park
Blindly following a forgotten entry in my appointment book made in my own handwriting, I prepared Fluffernutter sandwiches for myself and a schizophrenic vagrant named Mungo Jerry. Mungo was less violent than he first appeared, attempting murder only twice by poking my throat with a spork. The rest of the time we drank Hawaiian Punch and sang folk songs. Mungo showed me his teeth, and after he returned them to his pocket I said, “Friendship.”

“Kangaroo pussy!” he howled back, but I knew this was his way of saying, “Same.”

October 17, 2008 – “The Potboiler”
Location: Fuddrucker’s Restaurant
Sometimes a fellow can take only so much of the hooey do you know what I’m talking about? This was a lunch date with my Grandma, and I had barely bitten into my pulled pork sandwich when she started with the babble… tall tales, bald-faced lies, and sentences without beginnings, middles or ends. Good luck finding a reasonably placed subject OR predicate at the Fuddrucker’s on this particular day. At one point she told me that my cousin- a waitress- had been selected to go to the space station, and that yogurt was technically alive. I nearly spit out my Diet Sprite when she informed me that Arab people sleep standing up, and that albinos weren’t allowed to ride glass elevators. By the time she started telling me about her affair with Spiderman I had had enough. I picked up my cup of coffee and threw it in her face. She was scalded, but silenced, and for the first time in my life, I finally finished my Cole slaw.

July 5, 2005 – “Me Vs. Pizza”
Location: Endless Pizza Buffet
Went to lunch with the wife at this pizza piazza. Just my luck, there’s a kids birthday party going on: twenty-two rambunctious eight year olds. I’m enjoying my pepperoni and mushroom and trying to ignore my wife’s ramblings about our marriage being on the rocks when I feel a spitball hit the back of my neck. I whipped around and saw the kids laughing hysterically. So naturally I let fly with a stream of expletives so profound the children broke down in tears. Being a genuinely kind fellow I approached the birthday boy and asked him what I could do to make him feel better. Through sobs, he predictably answered, “Eat one hundred slices of pizza right now.” It was his birthday… what could I do?

Slices 18 and 19 went down pretty easy, but by the time I reached slice 24 I had to unbuckle my pants. By slice 36 the children were chanting my name in an unknown elvish-type language… they considered me to be some sort of God. By the 41st slice, my wife had enough and took the car home, and by slice 49 I was starting to see dead relatives. Is it me or is it always slice 57 that causes you to projectile vomit and fall out of your chair? The birthday boy was coated in my cheese, and didn’t seem to be in the mood to open his presents. Was he being unbelievably spiteful? Or was he just emotionally traumatized? You decide.

September 2, 2004 – “The Raise”
Location: Houlihan’s
It was time to reward my secretary of 11 years with her first financial raise so naturally I took her to the neighborhood Houlihan’s to deliver the news. I don’t remember why I was in a particularly peckish mood that day, but for some reason the prospect of simply telling her that she was a great worker and was getting more money that she deserved seemed a bit trite, very boring and in need of a little spice.

I began the lunch by telling her that she had put on a few pounds over the years and was quickly eating her way out of a job. “You need to take more pride in your appearance,” I continued, telling her that she could never land a man if her kankles continued to grow in diameter.

Almost on cue the water works started as she began crying. That’s when the waiter came to our table. I asked the pock-faced boy with the uniform to bring one of everything on the menu because ‘tank-ass is hungry’ as I gestured in my secretary’s direction. The tsunami of tears started pouring now as I let her in on my little game and told her about her pay increase.

I’m not sure she believed that she was getting a raise right off the bat, but when I handed her the check at the end of the meal, she must have connected the dots. What kind of guy would rack up such an enormous lunch tab and then make his secretary pay if he wasn’t giving her a raise? She didn’t need to say thank you at that point: her humiliation was all the thanks I needed.

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This Has to Stop

Mike O’Malley
He’s a chubby, unkempt schlub who wears a baseball cap to hide his shame. How about taking some of that money you spend on sweatpants and buy yourself some hair plugs? Better yet, just stop appearing on television and we won’t have any problems.



Harry Potter Films
It’s been ten sleep-inducing movies and the dork still hasn’t killed the bad guy. If this series was a dog it would have been put to sleep by now, or at least kicked in the belly until it spewed Alpo on the living room carpet. The British twits who “act” in these films better hold onto their brooms- they’ll be needing them for their next role: poverty-stricken street-sweepers! Harry Potter and the Enough Already…

Denial About The Moon Landing
If you don’t know it was faked, you’re probably having an adult read this sentence to you. Call me back when you’re a grownup.

Snoop Dogg, Jay-Z and Dr. Dre
These elderly once-thugs need to get off my television. Yesterday. Haven’t these oreos milked the fake tough-guy routine for long enough? What’s really sad is that there are still sheltered whites who believe in the wafer-thin personas these stooges have been perpetuating for the last twenty years. It’s kind of like believing professional wrestling is real after the age of 7. The most dangerous thing Jay-Z ever did was buy a Jersey-based sports franchise. The last Doctor that Dre saw was a proctologist for his colonoscopy, and the closest Snoop gets to doggy-style is when his Labrador shits on his Berber carpet. I’d like to issue an open invitation to these chocolate marshmallows: come by my house, anytime of the day or night, and I’ll beat their phony asses back to 1987. In rhythm.

Denis Leary & the MLB
He’s a furious alcoholic who couldn’t find a punch line at a title fight. If I have to hear Leary give another pointless rant about the misery of Boston fans, I will off myself. I’m glad I’ll never meet the man because I don’t think I could pretend to smile for that long. Denny, the Red Sox won. Twice. Now do the baseball fans of the world a favor and chain-smoke yourself to death in silence.

Bon Jovi & the MLB
When did this dropout of Mellencamp University- complete with melting face- become so essential to post-season baseball? If I have to watch this toilet brush lip-synch another tuneless anthem about the power of Chevrolet and the mental stability of Tim McCarver I’m gonna vomit down my shirt. This clown belongs in Vegas bussing tables at the endless burger bar.

The Grocery Store Cashier
Your bagger co-workers are literally the mentally retarded and now with self-checkout, customers are more than happy to do your job without you. You’re about as useful as the Vice President of the United States. Maybe it’s time you reconsider your cousin’s offer of helping him sell meth down at the high school.

The Sham-Wow Guy
Hey everybody! It’s Vince the Slap Chop Guy! When he’s not pushing super-absorbent cloth at you through your television, he’s dicing onions by slapping a piece of plastic – and when he’s not doing that, he’s getting into an uber-Kaufman-esque bloodbath with a hooker in a Miami hotel room. Whores. All fours. S’mores. We all know Vince was due a good punch to the suck-hole but when he got his tongue and face bitten by a prostitute – well, that was just too good to be true That’s like buying one Slap Chop for $19.95 and getting a second one absolutely free, paying only shipping and handling costs.

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Best of: Daily News Headlines

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The Godfather’s Day Off

A Don’s life moves pretty fast…

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The Legend of St. Patrick’s Day

Anybody can pop a can of Schlitz and get blackout drunk on St. Patrick’s Day. But did you know the historical significance of the ‘Irish Holiday?’

A long, long, long time ago- let’s say 1962- Ireland was a gorgeous pastoral paradise, a land where drunkards and their captive wives could roam the countryside freely, growing chubby on potatoes that were plentiful and guzzling gallons of ale that flowed as freely as urine after a prostate exam.

“Aye, ‘tis a good land this Ireland,” one such ruddy lump was most likely overheard to exclaim, tipsy on potato beer, “’Tis a good time to procreate and fill the land with little Iricks.”

Iricks was the prehistoric term for Irish people, which was later changed to ‘Hawaiian’ and then, after much confusion, changed back to ‘Irish people.’ And the little Iricks did appear… little boy Iricks toddling the fields, little girl Iricks mooning the clergy… There were scores of young Iricks frolicking in the fields… look it was just a lot of Iricks, okay? Being born with a blood-alcohol level of 6 is no easy way to come into the world, but what truly made life difficult for the young Iricks is that their doughy flesh and lack of any parental supervision made them extremely susceptible to the attacks of wandering snakes.

“Aye, these Irick babies is delicious,” slithered one snake, if snakes were able to talk when they slithered. But of course they cannot, so we as a group must assume. “’Tis time for the lot of us to gobble these babies whole, like the proverbial Egg McMuffins, which at this time has yet to be invented.”

Pending trademarks aside, the snakes did attack, swarming through the valleys, the hillsides, the dells, getties and rudimentary sewer systems. They sprang from under pillows and popped out of toilet seats… they crept into nurseries and playpens and devoured the tiny Iricks in a single swallow. It wasn’t long before the Irick parents began to notice something was wrong.

“Me baby is missing,” spoke one red-headed mother on the condition of anonymity, “and this time I don’t think me husband sold him for whiskey.” In an ironic twist, he had. But the rest of the parents had legitimate concerns.

“If the snakes eat our babies who will carry on our legacy of stumbling over cobblestones and pissing our britches?” Such questions led to the first ever Irish town-hall meeting, at which shrimp was served with that delicious cocktail sauce. The townspeople spoke as they de-veined.

“The bad news is that all our children are missing,” spoke the village Mayor with a toothpick in his mouth, “but the good news is we’re saving a bundle on babysitters.”

Savings aside, the Iricks knew something had to be done. They built makeshift contraptions to suspend their children above the ground by hanging them in a harness from a tree, but this only served to invite attacks from lazy bears and ambitious eagles.

Another town hall meeting was held.
“All in favor of passing a law to shoot Leprechauns on site…”
“Aye,” said the villagers in unison.
“Next order of business,” said the Mayor, genuinely offended that no one had brought any shrimp to today’s meeting, “the little matter of the baby-gobbling snakes.”
“There is no solution!” a woman cried out from the crowd.
“I surrender!” spoke another Irishman.
“All hail the snakes and their glorious domination over our dominion!”
“Repeal the Leprechaun law!” spoke a short gentleman in a green suit.

“SILENCE!” There came a thundering cry from the back of the room – and there stood a man twice the size of any man half his size. His eyes were burning, similar to the way fire burns but with significantly less smoke. He removed his tam as the villagers watched him, hushed.
“My name is Patrick,” he spoke, twirling his mustache and stepping to the front of the room. “Patrick Weinberg. I can rid ye of the snakes and your babies will be safe again. But in exchange I want your souls for all eternity.”

The shortsighted villagers agreed quickly, and so the very next day Patrick set to work.
He walked to the center of the village where he then pulled out his flute. He began to play a melody so lovely that the townspeople could scarcely believe their ears. Patrick danced to the shanty as the music flowed through the air. At once the snakes began to appear. They slithered out of taverns and nurseries, overcome with the power of Patrick’s righteous fife. They slank out of homes and crawled out of basements, squilting from behind bushes and slooping from beneath stones. When they were all gathered Patrick began to march…and march some more. The mesmerized snakes followed him with no will of their own. Patrick marched over the hills and valleys, through the dells and getties, and past the Bed, Bath & Beyond. He marched them to the coast, and continued to play as he stepped into the ocean, the snakes following blindly.

One by one the snakes entered the water, drowning shortly thereafter. Patrick did not stop playing his tune until every last snake was gone from the land.

The villagers applauded, and Patrick bowed before them.
“And now,” he said, “I want your souls for all eternity.”

The villagers realized what they had lost, and lowered their heads in shame, awaiting damnation.

“Aww hell,” said Patrick, “I never wanted your souls… let’s go get shit-faced!”

A great roar went up from the Iricks and they bought Patrick shots until he achieved Sainthood. More babies were manufactured and today the Iricks survive as hobbit-like creatures – but hobbit-like creatures with children safe from snake devourment. Today we celebrate St. Patrick’s day to give thanks that we are not Iricks and do not have to deal with bizarro problems such as snakes, leprechauns, and, of course, the accent.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

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