Fonda:  “Little story about Barbara Boxer, if I may.  Scene:  EXT. Malibu beach house, summer 1987.  Barbara and I are relaxing by my pool, making Reagan jokes and sharing a nice Sensi Star spliff and some wine coolers—when all of a sudden off comes the top to her O’Neill two piece, and the next thing I know the broad is fishing around inside my trunks for a handful of Captain

Garrett:  “Wait, so New Year’s resolutions don’t have to be, like, introspectivey…?  Because if that’s the case, screw losing fifteen pounds and landing a sitcom.  I’d rather just see that Ryan Seacrest jaggoff suffer like a Biblical Hebrew.”* **** (h/t Command Post)

Garrett:  “Dude, that older guy with the sneer?  He kept like, totally bitch slapping that poor little boy in the Bar Mitzvah suit.  Which, is that allowed?  Because I thought these things were scored on some kind of point system or something…”

Garrett: “Um, no offense guy?  But I have cable.”

Garrett:  “Not to harsh your mellow or anything, brother, but c’mon.  Fafblog!  That’s like, a different league… “Tell you what.  Let’s go get us a couple cranberry muffins, my treat.  Because trust me, it ain’t even possible to stay bummed with a cranberry muffin in your head…”

Garrett: “Dude, I’m thinking about starting up this killer band.  Can you play drums?” **** update:  “Oh.  Well can you maybe lend me five bucks, then?  I am totally jonesing for a meatball sub right now.”

Garrett:  “Honestly?  I don’t know a thing about that, my man.  But for $5 I can say whatever you want me to…”* **** update:  “…or just spot me a cup of coffee and a cheese danish.  That works, too.”

Fonda:  “I only met Kerry once—through Jane—during his Vietnam protest days.  You have to remember, Jane and I weren’t really close during the early seventies, and I was far less into geopolitical minutia than she was, being zoinked on acid or fifty-cent wine most of the time—so what I do recollect of ol’ Johnny is kinda hazy. “The most striking thing about him, as I remember, was just how much

“Omigod, tropical storms just suck, don’t they?  I mean, I love Jamaica, what with the dreadlocks and reggae music and beaches.  The Caymans, too.  It’s so beautiful and peaceful there. “…Say, did you know that I can hang coats from my nipples?”

“What, him again?  I don’t know what else to tell you—he’s a crummy liar, is all.  Say, did I ever tell you Marlon Wayans says my ass is so nice you can eat breakfast off of it…?”