because he drives a battered Buick and you drive a vintage muscle car, and he can. You know what he is, and he knows what you are, and you *wink* at him. Sway is locking eyes with an undercover cop on the subway.

Sway is entering a club through the staff entrance, so you can skip the line, the cover charge. Knicks, Kobe and Shizzaq in the hizzouse! That's making a phone call in the morning, and having courtside seats, Madison Square Garden, that evening. Sway is walking into the best five-star restaurant in the city, without a reservation, and being seated. because everybody knows your boyfriend, and everyone owes him a favor. all the clothes from Europe straight off the boat, still wrapped in plastic. Sway is walking into the Import Warehouse in Brooklyn. I wasn't chasing the money, I was chasing a feeling. Italian shoes and a fast car like anybody else, but I don't need 'em. I mean, let's face it, money gets you nice things. Y'know, people think I was after the money. You had it all, and you threw it away, you *dumb* *fuck*! Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar sipping on club sodas, selling whisky to firemen, and cheering the Bronx Bombers. Fuck Naturelle Riviera, I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back, sold me up the river, fucking bitch. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.

You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinsky. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. And while you're at it, fuck J.C.! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J.! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass cave-dwelling fundamentalist assholes everywhere. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for 'The Sopranos.' Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermès scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St.

And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Twenty to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car - get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores stinking up my day. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck *me*? Fuck *you*, Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.

Edward norton 25th hour