The FIB? Do I look homosexual? Do you think I care about the size of your Johnson? Now... you can't always tell who the good guys are. I'm not a good guy. But I'm fighting with them, and guess what? So are you.

Michael: I'm trying to relate to you.
Jimmy: No, you're trying to take me on some nostalgia trip. You're such a cliche.
Michael: Oh! says the dope-smoking, game-playing, live-at-home, world-owes-him-a-living millennial.

Look at me. I'm cranked on speed most of the time, but I'm productivity personified.

Michael: Well, I had to. To protect you.
Jimmy: Yeah, keep telling yourself that, when you see their faces every time you close your eyes. Here we are. The bike rental place. Please don't shoot the bike rental guy out of, like, force of habit.

Ah shit, here we go again.

I'll have two number 9s, a number 9 large, a number 6 with extra dip, a number 7, two number 45s, one with cheese, and a large soda.

I'm a well-dressed maniac!

Woozie: One's a fake.
CJ: That's amazing. You didn't even touch them.
Woozie: No. I just took a guess. Why else would he come in with two chips and sound so worried?

Does a polar bear shit in the woods?

CJ: You do know that I'm black, right? And not Chinese?
Woozie: I'm blind, Carl... not stupid.

Eddie's got two tickets to paradise, and I do too... In my pants.

CJ: Does the Pope shit in the woods?
Cesar: Why you always saying that? I already told you. Where the holiness does his business, is his business.

Grove Street. Home. At least it used to be until I fucked everything up.

Carl Johnson: Oh shit! Where you get this?
Cesar: Same place I got my pants, homes. This is America, man!