Hugh Lang: [to Whip] The FAA and the NTSB took 10 pilots, placed them in simulators, recreated the events that led to this plane falling out of the sky. Do you know how many of them were able to safely land the planes? Not one. Every pilot crashed the aircraft, killed everybody on board. You were the only one who could do it!
Whip: Nobody could've landed that plane like I did.
Whip: This is going to sound real stupid coming from a man in prison. But for the first time in my life, I'm free.
Harling Mays: What the hell kind of meds they giving you? Alprazolam: that's generic xanax. Hydrocodone: that's generic Vicodin. Probably Canadian. Where's the dihydromorphinone? Is this amateur hour? Get that doctor in here; you just saved a hundred people!
Whip: Harling! Did you bring my smokes?
Harling Mays: Yes I did. I got your medicines, and yes I got your smokes right here. Here's a fresh carton. Hell, if I was you, I'd fire up right here in the damn room.
Gaunt Young Man: As soon as you realize that the random events in your life are God... you will live a much better life. You spend your life believing that you have all the control over what happens. Bullshit. The plane you're flying goes down? Out of your control. God gives you cancer. I have no control over that. Did God give me cancer? You bet your ass God gave me cancer. You think if I begged for cancer God would have given it to me? No... because I assure you I have begged for God to take it away - and guess what? I have no control over that.
Harling Mays: Do not touch the merch mother fucker!
Avington Carr: Makes me wanna sniff some lines and go fly a jet!
Harling Mays: [to a nurse] Honey, could you hustle us up a couple of daiquiris and a cocktail weenie? On second thought, just bring the booze, I brought my own weenie. Oh, she's offended. And she should be. I'm a pig. And I hate me. That's what we have in common, nurse Rached. We both hate me.
Whip: There's whole lot of people out there whose mothers die and they don't fucking drink.
Nicole: You are sick, Whip.
Whip: Yeah, well, I embrace it, shit! I choose to drink.
Nicole: You do?
Whip: Yes, I do.
Nicole: You choose it? Well, I don't see a whole lot of choice going on here!
Whip: I choose to drink! And I blame myself! I am happy to! And you know why? Because I choose to drink! I got an ex-wife and a son I never talk to! And you know why? Because I choose to drink!
Harling Mays: I'm on the list, baby girl. Mister Mays. Harling.
Whip: I don't suck dick to get high!
Whip: [to hearing committee] I'm drunk right now, because I'm an alcoholic.
Gaunt Young Man: [after receiving a pack of cigarettes from Whip] Thanks. I'll pass these out in the cancer ward.
Hugh Lang: Now, an initial report shows you had alcohol in your system at a level of point-two-four. Now in the good ol' US of A, one of the most lenient drunk driving countries in the world, you go to jail for driving with anything above point oh-eight. And by driving, I mean a car.
Harling Mays: Oh! Oh, almost forgot- I got you some stroke mags. Been in the hospital, know what you need. Got Juggs, Hot Milfs and Eat Ass Masters. You just stroke it all day- you're a hero. If I was you, I'd just lay here, pulling on that thing all day long.
Gaunt Young Man: Do I scare you? People are either drawn to me, or they pretend like they can't see me. It's a trip. They think because I'm close to the other side, I got some sort of power or wisdom.
Trevor: My name's Trevor. You saved my mom.
Harling Mays: See y'all on the dark side of the Moon.
Hugh Lang: Death demands responsibility.
Atlanta ATC: SouthJet 227, Atlanta Centre. Descend and maintain flight level three-zero-zero.
Ken Evans: Descend and maintain flight level three-zero-zero, SouthJet 227.
Whip: Whoa, wha? What is that?
Ken Evans: The elevator feels really stiff, sir!
Whip: Alright, hold course. Margaret, get everybody strapped in, get everybody strapped in tight!
Ken Evans: Full left hard sir!
Whip: Power back! Power back!
Margaret Thomason: Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seatbelts now! Fasten your seatbelts securely now!
Ken Evans: I have no control on my side. No control at all sir.
Whip: We've lost our hydraulics. Centre, this is SouthJet 227, we've lost our hydraulics and feels like our pitch control.
Atlanta ATC: Southjet 227, Atlanta Centre, understand you've lost hydraulics and pitch control?
Whip: That is affirm, we are in an uncontrolled descent.
Atlanta ATC: Southjet 227, Atlanta, say your intentions. Are you declaring an emergency?
Margaret Thomason: Everyone's belted in, are we going down?
Whip: We need everyone in brace positions. Yes, that is affirm, we are in a dive. We are in a dive. We have lost vertical control. We're gonna need drag, I want you to throw out everything you got, the speedbrakes, the gear, everything.
Ken Evans: Gear, speedbrakes.
Margaret Thomason: Brace positions, head down and forward, head down and forward!
Ken Evans: Uh, gear is down. I don't think hydraulics is the problem sir.
Whip: We need to dump the fuel, do it! Atlanta Centre, this is SouthJet 227, we are in an uncontrolled dive, descending out of 21,000 feet, we're declaring an emergency. We've dumped our fuel. We've got a jammed stabilizer or something, we need a block of altitude to work the problem and a heading to the nearest airport.
Atlanta ATC: SouthJet 227, Hartsfield-Jackson Airport is twelve o clock at two-zero miles from your present position. Turn left, heading three-one-five.
Whip: Dump the flaps.
Ken Evans: We're still fast.
Whip: Just do it. Do it, 30 degrees. Three-one-five, we'll try our best. Alright, that bought us a little time. That bought us a little time. Now we've got to revert to manual control, your side first.
Ken Evans: OK, I got it. Nothing, no control. Oh no, we're diving again!
Whip: Alright, Okay, okay. I can't let go of my side, see if you can reach my side.
Harling Mays: You're a hero, man! You will never pay for a drink for as long as you live.
Gaunt Young Man: Ah, I love the smell of nicotine in the morning. Smells like - victory!
Whip: I drank the night before the flight.
Whip: This thing is so heavy it's killing me.
Young Will: I love you mom.
Whip: Whoah! Nothing like a little thirty knot crosswind to exercise that ol' sphincter muscle.
Whip: What kind of God would let this happen?
Whip: I'm fine.