Scarface Quotes

You know, I was gutting this loser the other day, and I thought, It’d be more fun fighting that little dhampir. I wonder if she’s recovered yet. And here you are.” “Lucky me,” I said. Scarface grinned. “You know, I might even let you live. You’re funny.

You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot further with a smile and a gun. A smile, a gun, and a Brute get you the key to the city. —Al “Scarface” Capone, Interview, 1930

We give violent movies a pass but come down hard on a rapper like Scarface, who is ultimately a storyteller just like Brian de Palma. And neither of them is responsible for the poverty and violence that really do shape people's lives--not to mention their individual choices.

You can take him!” Ray whispered in my ear. “Damn straight.” The next thing I remember, Ray was fishing me out from under the table. Or, at least, he was trying to, but Scarface’s foot was in the way. “On. Her. Ass,” Scarface said proudly. “She just slipped,” Ray said, sounding frantic. “Anybody could slip. She’s fine!

I wan't what's comming to me. The world... and everything in it.

…our world did not fall because we did not believe in fairness… our world fell because it could no longer support the enormous weight we had put upon it, in the name of fairness.

We have one shot at this,” Zezili said, “so don’t fuck it up.” Looking at the filthy, scar-faced girl next to her, Zezili suspected all the girl ever did was fuck up.

I don't know what I expected – no maybe I do, Al Pacino from Scarface- but this drug dealer is more like Al Pacino at the beginning of The Godfather reasonably bemused, untouched by his criminal world, sitting with Diane Keaton whispering about Luca Brazzi, not yet asleep with the fishes, or like Al Pacino from Glengarry Glen Ross, although actually, now that I think about it, he's not like Al Pacino at all but more like Kevin Spacey from that film, and who's ever been afraid of Kevin Spacey?

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells Like Poop.)

No greater satisfaction exists now than a paragraph well written in honor of something you value.

I'm too busy duck farming to watch many movies, so I don't know: Is it ScarFace, or is it ScarfAce? Either way, I am a knitting gangster.

I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. Al Pacino in Scarface

Alphas, like Scarface, can be drug dealers, but it’s still a little grimy.

Keep America Beautiful, he thought, Kill a Scarface Today. He

He's not like his father. She reconsidered this. I mean, he's not perfect. But he's not Scarface.

That wasn’t so bad,” I decided, after downing the shot. Maybe I was getting my rhythm. “Because you threw it over your shoulder,” Scarface told me, looking smug. “Did not.” I looked behind me, only to see an outraged vamp with fey wine dripping down his face. “Oops.” “It was for luck,” Ray said defensively, wrapping both my hands around a glass. “Drink!” I drank.

Destiny is never clear when it arrives. Sometimes we just refuse to do what we no longer feel good about doing. These moments are mysteries in our lives, but we know everything will change.

You don’t have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your f@*$!n’ fingers and say ‘That’s the bad guy.’” —“TONY MONTANA” IN SCARFACE

I wanted to sip my daily Starbucks coffee as I got to work early (no later than 11:00 am), have a late lunch (1:00-4:00), and work late (5:01) every day (except Thursdays and Fridays). I wanted a life so good even Scarface would want to scarf it up.

I doubt you even know what duty is,” she retorted. A risky response—such flippancy of the tongue—and it might provoke them, but showing fear would invite a response. Half of combat is causing your opponent to think you are stronger than you are, Gansukh had told her. Scarface

Scarface don’t have shit on me. I should have been in Lion King, huh?! Maybe I could have been an extra. I heard ALL OF THE FUCKING JOKES, BRO! I HEARD THEM ALL! NOTHING YOU CAN SAY TO ME THAT I HAVEN’T HEARD BEFORE SO EVERYONE GET YO SHIT OUT NOW BECAUSE THE NEXT TIME A BITCH SAY SOMETHING, I’MA POP YOU IN YO SHIT!

Now, granted, Howard doesn't fit the conventional psychological profile of a rebounder - that of the no-nonsense, utilitarian "dirty work" specialist. Rather, this is a guy who sings Beyoncé at the free throw line, who quotes not Scarface but Finding Nemo, whose idea of humor is ordering 10 pizzas to be delivered to another player's hotel room, or knocking on teammates' doors and sprinting off down the hall, giggling. He goofs around during practice, during press conferences and during team shootarounds, for which Magic coach Stan Van Gundy has had to institute a no-flatulence rule because, as teammate Rashard Lewis says, "Dwight really likes to cut the cheese.

Rommy pensò a Tony Montana. Lui, di certo, non si sarebbe perso in chiacchiere in un momento come quello. Non c'era tempo per stare a discutere. L'unica cosa da fare era mettersi al sicuro. Il ragazzino si sentì molto meglio confrontando il proprio comportamento con quello che, presumibilmente, avrebbe avuto Tony. Se voleva diventare come lui, tanto per cominciare, doveva imparare ad agire come lui.

Then conversation. It’s always about sex. You really get tired of it. Jokes about sex, stories about sexual conquests, lectures on serious science about sex, which is supposed to sound like an expert discussion which is why it tends to get even more disgusting. But you’re not supposed to show your disgust, because if you do, the Scarface will give you this condescending smile: pooh-pooh, I thought you were a woman who’s above that, but women always have a dirty mind.

Why this book is disliked by gay readers: Captain Ernst Roehm, was a stocky, bull-necked, piggish-eyed, scar-faced professional soldier—the upper part of his nose had been shot away in 1914—with a flair for politics and a natural ability as an organizer. Like Hitler he was possessed of a burning hatred for the democratic Republic. His aim was to re-create a strong nationalist Germany and he believed with Hitler that this could be done only by a party based on the lower classes, from which he himself, unlike most Regular Army officers, had come. A tough, ruthless, driving man—albeit, like so many of the early Nazis, a homosexual—he helped to organize the first Nazi strong-arm squads which grew into the S.A.... (...) Murderers, pimps, homosexual perverts, drug addicts or just plain rowdies were all the same to him if they served his purposes. (...) The brown-shirted S.A. never became much more than a motley mob of brawlers. Many of its top leaders, beginning with its chief, Roehm, were notorious homosexual perverts. Lieutenant Edmund Heines, who led the Munich S.A., was not only a homosexual but a convicted murderer. These two and dozens of others quarreled and feuded as only men of unnatural sexual inclinations, with their peculiar jealousies, can. (...) [Hitler] who was so monumentally intolerant by his very nature, was strangely tolerant of one human condition—a man’s morals. No other party in Germany came near to attracting so many shady characters. As we have seen, a conglomeration of pimps, murderers, homosexuals, alcoholics and blackmailers flocked to the party as if to a natural haven. (...) Karl Ernst, a former hotel bellhop and ex-bouncer in a café frequented by homosexuals, whom Roehm had made leader of the Berlin S.A., had alerted the storm troopers...

Chissà per quale assurdo motivo gli uomini hanno questa smania di compiere azioni e atti illeciti? Sono così noiose le regole? Così stupide da doverle aggirare per sentirsi vivi e liberi almeno per qualche ora? Le regole sono il vangelo della libertà. Ma la maggior parte delle persone non sa e non vuole essere libera. Essere liberi è faticoso e impegnativo, come tutte le cose migliori della vita.

Facing Erienne, Christopher favored her with a lopsided grin. “I suppose this means I won’t be welcomed here again?” “Get out! And don’t ever darken this door again!” she cried, fighting tears of anger and humiliation. Her lips curling with contempt, she gave him a scathing perusal. “Were a twisted, scar-faced, hunchbacked cripple the only other man on earth, I would surely choose him over you!” Christopher let his gaze glide down her. “As for me, Erienne, were you cast down before me, I would not be wont to cross over you to get to some broad bovine.” He smiled in wry humor as his eyes met hers again. “ ’Twould be pure foolishness to spite myself for the sake of pride.” “Out!” The word was spat from her lips with vengeance as her arm thrust out in the direction of the door. -Christopher & Erienne

Captain Ernst Roehm, on the staff of the Army’s District Command VII in Munich, had joined the party before Hitler. He was a stocky, bull-necked, piggish-eyed, scar-faced professional soldier—the upper part of his nose had been shot away in 1914—with a flair for politics and a natural ability as an organizer. Like Hitler he was possessed of a burning hatred for the democratic Republic and the “November criminals” he held responsible for it. His aim was to re-create a strong nationalist Germany and he believed with Hitler that this could be done only by a party based on the lower classes, from which he himself, unlike most Regular Army officers, had come. A tough, ruthless, driving man—albeit, like so many of the early Nazis, a homosexual—he helped to organize the first Nazi strong-arm squads which grew into the S.A., the army of storm troopers which he commanded until his execution by Hitler in 1934.

No, no estúpido!” shouts the uglier one. “Don’t you know who this is? This is the Gringo Scarface. He is worth muy dinero.

Scarface had fulfilled my prophecy, living up to his nickname and now I was the little wolf running off to the jungle with Timone and Pumbaa.

Scarface

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop), because of the streak of white fur that looked like a scar on his face. And because he farted. A lot. 

MEOW!” Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells Like Poop)

He always talked about going out gangster, like Scarface. When he fell, though, he had tears in his eyes.

He remembered how the scar-faced man had stepped on his fingers one by one, sneering while telling him that Zhou Yang would never show up.  Zhou Yang was abroad with his childhood sweetheart. No matter how many phone calls Shen Mo made, no one answered.

I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster ’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master (S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit (C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit (S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate (C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit” Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys Got more buoyancy than Elián González Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares (S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype (C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe? (S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas (C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine See the hall of fame for the criminally insane Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses (S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat (C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet (S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room (C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin But if you like to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt? I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer” The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad (S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . . (C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . . (S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent, tangent, tangent . . . (C:) He’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (Fade-out) (S:) I’m goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . . (S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . . (C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .

Scarface, Boxer, and Rambo. She couldn’t have gotten Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod? she wondered with a desperate kind of hysteria. Moe, Larry, and Curly? The Three Amigos? Rambo tugged a length of rope out of his hip pocket, handed his rifle to Boxer and grabbed her wrist.

Hip-hop has always been about style and self-expression, but it feels like as the culture’s gotten older, that’s somehow been lost. You’ve got all of these guys out here now just trying to transform into whatever’s hot to chase some dollars and some airplay, but if you’re chasing the next man, who the fuck are you really? You get it on the production end, too, but if you ask me, that’s not being a producer or an MC, that’s being a chameleon. It’s biting, straight up. I don’t get it. It’s fucking up the culture. That shit used to get you clowned out of the game.

And to anyone coming up in the game, please take this advice: you get in the homeboy business and you think you’re going to make it with your friend, but the sad truth is, nine times out of ten in that situation, your homeboy isn’t going to play fair, because he isn’t really your friend. It’s on you to handle your business. Act accordingly.

I don’t know no quit.

last five minutes of Scarface and they were about to take Tony Montana down. That’s what kind of company.” “Get the fuck outta here. Are you for real?” I didn’t stop what I was doing; I just nodded. “Oh, hell no!” she yelled, racing over to me. “Give me a fucking gun!

Don’t like me or dislike me because I’m from Texas, like me or dislike me because of the music I make and the way I rap and what I rap about and how I bring it. And if you can’t appreciate me for that, then I can’t help you. I’m not interested in being the best in the South. I’m interested in being the best.

I’ve always known why we were making the music we were making, just like I know how a lifetime of subtle and blatant racism and oppression can make you want to reach for your pistol and either shoot the oppressor or shoot yourself. When you live in a society that repeatedly tells you that it values a white person’s life, safety, values, and lifestyle more than your own, and you get reminders of it every day and at every turn—whether it’s the Michael Brown case or just talking to a friend or family member about some fucked-up shit they just went through while living their life—it’s very easy to come to the conclusion that the best solution to all of this shit is violence.

Don’t get it confused. We are the hunted. We are the motherfucking target. You better wake the fuck up. And I don’t believe in peaceful protest. Peaceful protest will just get your ass kicked again. It’s just like in life. If a motherfucker is fucking with you in the hood and you keep turning the other cheek, you’re gonna keep getting your ass kicked. The only way to beat a bully is to fight. Win, lose, or draw, you’ve gotta fight. And I don’t give a fuck what anybody says, the same goes for the state. Honestly, I’m happy when I see niggas fight back. Like that shit in Ferguson was great to me. Or when they rioted in L.A. after the Rodney King trial? I love that shit. I’m for anything radical when it comes to the mistreatment of minorities. You can’t lay down in the face of oppression.

On May 4, 1932 (...) the New York Times featured side-by-side front page stories on the world's two most infamous criminals. First, the paper reported that, late the previous evening, a police squad car had whisked Alphonse "Scarface" Capone from the Cook County Jail to the Dearborn Street station, where he and several government agents had boarded the Dixie Flyer, headed for Atlanta and the federal penitentiary there. The adjacent story described the first day of hearings before the federal referee overseeing the bankruptcy of International Match. "Glad to start, he says", was the tagline for the Capone column. the one about Ivar said "Trusted Him Implicitly".

If this sort of romantic love were cocaine, then as a culture we’d all be like Tony Montana in Scarface: burying our faces in a fucking mountain of it, screaming, “Say hello to my lee-tle friend!” The problem is that we’re finding out that romantic love is kind of like cocaine. Like, frighteningly similar to cocaine. Like, stimulates the exact same parts of your brain as cocaine. Like, gets you high and makes you feel good for a while but also creates as many problems as it solves, as does cocaine.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop)

The wolf stalks him anyway, this accidental discovery, this pale-eyed, scar-faced child who was not a child, two thousand years gone by when the wolf loved him.

Scarface The hair is thinning, At the forehead This moustache of mine, Is growing thicker Though And this beard of mine, Stronger And Grayer! My face has, Scars now And so has my soul, Shall I call myself Scarface Or Scarsoul? ~Avijeet

Scarface The hair is thinning, At the forehead This moustache of mine, Is growing thicker Though And this beard of mine, Stronger And Grayer! My face has, Scars now And so has my soul, Shall I call myself Scarface Or Scarsoul?

Scarface

Scarface The hair is thinning, At the temples, This moustache of mine, Is growing thicker, Though And this beard of mine, Stronger And Grayer! My face has, Scars now, And so has my soul, Shall I call myself, Scarface Or Scarsoul?

Or at least he thought he was. The two of them, along with their parents and pet cat, Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells like Poop), woke up one day in Minecraft after going to bed in their own world. They had no idea how it happened, and they were working

Yes, this looks like the place. Jack Smith—nice. Kate Smith—nice. Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop)—mostly nice with a streak of naughty. Well, he’s a cat I guess that makes sense.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells Like Poop) was not just any cat.

THAT is Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop).” “Wha... wha... what’s poop?

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop), because of the streak of white fur that looked like a scar on his face. And because he farted. A lot.  Bruce was too fast for Dad, though, and darted away. Mom had calmed down slightly, or at least she had stopped screaming. Then she got a good look at Dad and screamed again. “AHHH! You’re a blockhead!” she yelled, blinking her eyes in disbelief. She rubbed them and

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smelled Like Poop) though.

You mean him?” Jack asked, pointing at Bruce. “That’s Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan. The actual greatest ninja ever.

Empathy is born from understanding,

offload some 125,000 dissidents out of the Mariel harbor on boats to Miami. Among the people were concealed some 2,500 “criminals” and “deviants

ostentatious

The real life Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop) left this earth in August of 2015. He was 14 years old. We’re bummed he didn’t have real respawning

His jowls full, Scarface allows his prey to escape, satisfied to continue grinding the two-thousand-pound bite of gristle and meat

Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me. I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.” Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest. I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought. “Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him. He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor. I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported. Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place. I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.

Barely able to propel himself forward, Scarface fights to stabilize himself

He didn't understand that whenever a person truly intends to change, his old friends become his new enemies.

The hefty gang adored Big Nana: She was expressive and affectionate and bold, blustery and showy around them, applauding their girths and glutinous ways at the table. She pinched their cheeks and butts, other fleshy body parts, squeezed them to the edge of respiratory failure, kidded them about the pudgy Sicilian girls, and gave them hell for not fattening me up. They were well aware of what she did to Scarface.

You transcend your own self through acting out someone else's life.

I was heartbroken, but used to it; the patterns of struggle and failure in life tend to repeat themselves.

Without a moral center -- there can be no string family. And without family, we one and all suffer.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop), because of the streak of white fur that looked like a scar on his face. And because he farted. A lot.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop),

And, possessed by the tormented spirit of Ricky Ricardo, Rod Steiger plays an old Cuban don with an accent and gestures that make Al Pacino in Scarface seem subtle.

No person should ever have to witness so much death,

Scarface swims along the sea bed in water

A virulent form of utopianism has indeed afflicted the modern age, but its name is not Marxism. It is the crazed motion that a single global system known as the free market can impose itself on the most diverse cultures and economies and cure all their ills. The purveyors of this totalitarian fantasy are not to be found hiding scar-faced and sinisterly soft-spoken in underground bunkers like James Bond villains. They are to be seen dining at upmarket Washington restaurants and strolling on Sussex estates.

was Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells like Poop); a mere fisherman could not defeat him!

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells like Poop) never loses. And he wasn’t going to start today.

He was Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells like Poop); a mere fisherman could not defeat him!

On May 16, 1925, a young reverend from Berwyn named Henry C. Hoover arranged to have deputy sheriffs raid Capone’s big Cicero casino, the Hawthorne Smoke Shop. Shortly after raiders burst in, Capone arrived wearing pajamas and an overcoat, unshaven and surly. Rarely rising before noon, he’d been summoned from bed at the hotel next door. When he tried to force his way inside, a real estate broker turned deputy blocked his way. “What do you think this is,” the broker asked, “a party?” “It ought to be my party,” Capone snarled. “I own the place.” The broker took a harder look at Capone, saw the long scar, and bid him, “Come on in.” Another raider brought Capone upstairs, where the men were dismantling and carting off gaming equipment. Capone claimed he was being picked on, then said ominously, “This is the last raid you will ever make.” Reverend Hoover watched the man in pajamas clean out the cash register and asked him who he was. “Al Brown,” Capone shot back, invoking his preferred alias, “if that is good enough for you.” “Muttering and grumbling, Capone went out,” the reverend recalled, “and disappeared down the stairs. Some time later . . . he re-appeared, neatly dressed and shaven and clothed in an entirely different spirit.” “Reverend,” he asked, “can’t we get together?” “What do you mean, Mr. Capone?” “I give to churches,” Capone said, “and I give to charity . . . if you will let up on me in Cicero, I will withdraw from Stickney.

Born of the Great War, this “trench broom” meant to help American doughboys sweep their way across Europe. But the conflict ended too soon for the Thompson to take part, and many of the fifteen thousand guns in circulation by 1929 ended up in private hands. Because the weapon was so new, few laws governed its sale. Legally purchasing a tommy gun in Chicago, in those days, was easier than acquiring a handgun.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells like Poop);

they didn’t know how to spell Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty from Japan (Who Smells Like Poop)? Either way, he slunk back into the shadows to find his next target. Chapter 21 Kate pushed Lady into a gallop as the pillagers advanced on the village.

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells Like Poop).

Bruce Lee the Scar-Faced Ninja Attack Kitty From Japan (Who Smells Like

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I hoped Scarface was having a shitty day.

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