"That's 'cause we all wanna be problemless. To fix ourselves. We look for some magic solution to make us all better, but none of us really know what we're doing. And why is that so bad? That's all we humans can do. Guess. Try. Hope. But, Justin, just pray you don't fool yourself into thinking you've got the answer. Because that's bullshit. The trick is living without an answer. I think"

"Bruno Kirby — Marty Lewis"

"Peter Boyle — Carl Lazlo, Esq."

"Bill Murray — Dr. Hunter S. Thompson"

"Based on the twisted legend of Hunter S. Thompson"

"I hate to advocate weird chemicals, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone... but they've always worked for me."

"As your ex-attorney, I advise you not to worry."

"As your attorney, I advise you to leave this room at once."

"Well I guess if I had to swear one way or another, I'd say Lazlo wasn't insane. He just had very strange rhythms. But he stomped on the terra. Lord Buckley said that. It's hard to say he got what he deserved, because he never really got anything, at least not in this story. And right now, this story is all we have ... It's sad. But what's really sad is it never got weird enough for me. I moved to the country when the boat got too crowded. Then I learned that President Nixon had been eaten by white cannibals on an island near Tijuana for no good reason at all. Golly, you hear a lot of savage and unnatural things about people these days. Lazlo and Nixon are both gone now, but I don't think I'm going to believe that 'til I can gnaw on their skulls with my very own teeth. Fuck those people, huh? If they're out there, I'm going to find them, and I'm going to gnaw on their skulls. Because it still hasn't gotten weird enough for me."

"Super Sunday. Dawn. My recollections of the last twelve hours are very dim. All that I know for certain is that shortly after I checked in, two third-world drug abusers disguised as hotel employees forced their way into my room; ransacked it, drank all my liquor, did all my drugs, stole my dinner. If the security precautions aren't beefed up at this hotel; I'm looking for safer accommodations. It's a sad state of affairs when this reporter has to go heavily armed to breakfast."

"He became a man the day of the greatest game he ever played. Everything he ever knew about common decency and morality he learned that day in December from Alan "The Horse" Ameche; and today in the Superbowl he would earn his wings. The crowd had assembled; a crowd of America's elite. Toyata salesmen from all around the country—orientals and even those suspected of being orientals—stacked on the thirty yard line watching him sweat and wipe caked blood from his face. The Gallow brothers—Ernest and Julio—party guys who had skinned a few Mexicans and forced them to carry them on their shoulders down to the pre-game tailgate parties at the colosseum. The Pepsi and Coca Cola bottlers of America—Coke adds life; It's the real thing—bombarded by missiles; flying flaming matchbook covers. The waterheads from General Motors up in the top seats where they belong; getting the worst of the pollution. All sorts of weird motherfuckers were at the game."