Look, what are we doing here? I’m supposed to be wishing you a happy birthday? Why? You’ve turned 90—big fucking deal. See that’s the problem, people turn 90, they think they deserve a big fucking party. They want a goddamn medal like they’ve just split the atom. But do you know what, Dad, father of mine, Bernard, you prick, do you know what? Ten million other fucking people have already split the atom, and you ain’t the first person to turn 90. But you’ve always been a follower, a company man. Toe the line, everything falls into place, am I right? The only language you speak is nine to five and a pension. I have been brought here to tell you to fuck that. You want your goddamn medal? Live, Bernie boy. Screw a black chick, sniff out an opium den, strap on a many-colored parachute and jump out a fucking plane. You don’t think you can do that, you bitch about your hips? Your hips are weak? Your fucking hips are weak? Guess what—you’re weak. Love to Mom.
Tags: birthdays, david mamet
