Frank: Oh, I get, and I am offended. Not because I've got a problem with bitter, predictable, whiny, millionaire disk jockeys complaining about celebrities or how tough their life is, while I live in an apartment with paper-thin walls next to a couple of Neanderthals who, instead of a baby, decided to give birth to some kind of nocturnal civil defense air-raid siren that goes off every fuckin' night like it's Pearl Harbor. I'm not offended that they act like it's my responsibility to protect their rights to pick on the weak like pack animals, or that we're supposed to support their freedom of speech when they don't give a fuck about yours or mine.
Office Worker: So, you're against free speech now? That's in the Bill of Rights, man.
Frank: I would defend their freedom of speech if I thought it was in jeopardy. I would defend their freedom of speech to tell uninspired, bigoted, blowjob, gay-bashing, racist and rape jokes all under the guise of being edgy, but that's not the edge. That's what sells. They couldn't possibly pander any harder or be more commercially mainstream, because this is the "Oh no, you didn't say that!" generation, where a shocking comment has more weight than the truth. No one has any shame anymore, and we're supposed to celebrate it. I saw a woman throw a used tampon at another woman last night on network television, a network that bills itself as "Today's Woman's Channel". Kids beat each other blind and post it on Youtube. I mean, do you remember when eating rats and maggots on Survivor was shocking? It all seems so quaint now. I'm sure the girls from "2 Girls 1 Cup" are gonna have their own dating show on VH-1 any day now. I mean, why have a civilization anymore if we no longer are interested in being civilized?
Office Worker: So what about you Frank? Did you see that freak on "American Superstars" last night?
Office Worker: Last night; that freak on "American Superstarz."
Frank: No... I mean yes, I saw that accidentally. I don't watch "American Superstarz"
Office Worker: You don't watch it, but you saw him. What are you too good for the show?
Frank: Yeah, I'm too good for a karaoke contest that makes stars out of people with no talent.
Office Worker: *Laugh You can't say that dude, some of those kids have real talent.
Frank: No they don't. They have good pitch... they're relatively clean, they're non-threatening to little girls and old ladies, they have the ability to stand in line with a stadium full of other desperate and confused people, but I assure you they are talent-free.
Office Worker: Yeah, well I bet 32 million people would disagree with you bro, because that's how many people called-in to vote last year on the finale.
Frank: I wish I was a super-genius inventor and could come up with a way to make a telephone into an explosive device that was triggered by the "American Superstarz" voting number. The battery could explode and leave a mark on the face, so I could know who to avoid talking to before they even talked. And I could look and say, "Hm, no you're gonna be saying anything that's going to add any value to my life."
Office Worker: Yeah, but it's funny. I mean you gotta admit that. Steven Clark, that's funny shit Frank...
Frank: It's not nice to laugh at someone who's not all there. It's the same type of freak-show distraction that comes along every time a mighty empire starts collapsing. "American Superstarz" is the new colosseum and I won't participate in watching a show where the weak are torn apart every week for our entertainment. I'm done, really, everything is so "cool" now. I just want it all to stop. I mean, nobody talks about anything anymore. They just regurgitate everything they see on TV, or hear on the radio or watch on the web. When was the last time you had a real conversation with someone without somebody texting or looking at a screen or a monitor over your head? You know, a conversation about something that wasn't celebrities, gossip, sports, or pop politics. You know, something important, something personal.
Frank: I wish I was a super-genius inventor and could come up with a way to make a telephone into an explosive device that was triggered by the American Superstarz voting number. The battery could explode and leave a mark on the face, so I could know who to avoid talking to before they even talked.
Frank: I hate my neighbors. The constant cacophony of stupidity that pours from their apartment is absolutely soul-crushing. It doesn't matter how politely I ask them to practice some common courtesy - they're incapable of comprehending that their actions affect other people. They have a complete lack of consideration for anyone else, and an overly developed sense of entitlement. They have no decency, no concern, no shame. They do not care that I suffer from debilitating migraines and insomnia. They do not care that I have to go to work, or that I want to kill them. I know it's not normal to want to kill, but I also know that I am no longer normal.
Frank: [On the air] My name is Frank. That's not important. The important question is: who are you? America has become a cruel and vicious place. We reward the shallowest, the dumbest, the meanest and the loudest. We no longer have any common sense of decency. No sense of shame. There is no right and wrong. The worst qualities in people are looked up to and celebrated. Lying and spreading fear is fine as long as you make money doing it. We've become a nation of slogan-saying, bile-spewing hatemongers. We've lost our kindness. We've lost our soul. What have we become? We take the weakest in our society, we hold them up to be ridiculed, laughed at for our sport and entertainment. Laughed at to the point, where they would literally rather kill themselves than live with us anymore.
Roxy: You really had the chance to do something awesome here. But you're blowing it, Frank. Now you're just gonna be remembered as some creepy old stalker dude who was in love with some young twat on a television show. Just a pervy old dude that killed that girl and then himself when he couldn't have her.
Frank: I didn't kill her because I couldn't have her. I killed her because she wasn't nice.
Frank: I am offended. Not because I got a problem with bitter, predictible, whining millionaire disc jockeys complaining about celebrities or how tough their life is, while I live in an apartment with paper-thin walls next to a couple of Neanderthals who, instead of a baby, decided to give birth to some kind of nocturnal civil defense air raid siren that goes off every fucking night like it's Pearl Harbor.
Roxy: Why quit now? You kill yourself, Frank, and you're killing the wrong person, which would be a shame when there are so many other Chloes out there who need to die.
Frank: Are you A.D.D. 'Juno'
Roxy: Yes. I have A.D.D. And don't you ever call me fucking 'Juno' again.
Roxy: That's who we should kill next.
Frank: A fictitious character?
Roxy: No. Diablo Cody. Fuck her for writing that movie, she's the only stripper who suffers from too much self esteem.
Roxy: Do you have it in you Fuller? How long has it been since you've actually had to shoot someone? Oh wait, you never have. I forgot, you never served in the military. You had your parents help you dodge the draft. Just like every other rich blowhard who makes a living off of American Xenophobes. Seems like you guys just exploited some tragedy to further your agenda. In fact, it seems like it's always been about protecting big oil companies right to keep boiling the whole world alive. Just because some court appointed, hillbilly president started taking orders from Jesus or the Easter bunny or some other make um up play friend of his.
Morning Show Host: Please, that is just your typical, uneducated, femo-Nazi point of view.
Roxy: Who you're killing next? Do you take requests? Because I was thinking maybe some Kardashians, my gym coach. People who give high fives. Really, any jock. Twihards. People who talk about punk rock. Who else really rips my cock off?
Frank: Get off the bed!
Roxy: Oh, Mormons and other religious assholes who won't let gay people be married. And adult women who call their tits the girls.
Roxy: Christ, Frank. You look like fuck pie.
Frank: [to the guy who sees him bathing in the car wash] The washing machine's broken. What?