George: I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not. I excel at not giving a shit. Experience has taught me that interest begets expectation, and expectation beget disappointment, so the key to avoiding disappointment is to avoid interest. A equals B equals C Equals A, or whatever. I also don't have a lot of interest in being a good person or a bad person. From what I can tell, either way, you're screwed. Bad people are punished by society's laws, and good people are punished by Murphy's Law. So you see my dilemma.
Georgia 'George' Lass: I think death for me was just a wake up call.
George: But if death sneaks up on you, the only thing you have time to think is 'Ah shit!'
George: [George was supposed to reap her first soul, a little girl] If you want her to die so bad, *you* do it!
Rube: [angrily] I can't, no one can except you. Death is non-transferable, she's *your* mark. Only you can do the deed.
George: Well then, barring any unforeseen accidents, I'd say she has another eighty years.
Rube: Yeah, well you believe me, that's eighty years she doesn't want.
George: What is that supposed to mean?
Rube: Her fate was sealed the moment she got onto that train. Her soul expired. You know what happens when you keep a soul around after its time?
Rube: Same thing happens to milk. It spoils, goes bad, souls go bad in all kinds of ways.
Rube: [continues to speak in quiet anger] If you're having trouble comprehending the severity of the situation, why don't you consult Webster's on the definition of bad? If you don't take her soul, it's going to wither and die and rot inside her. I've seen it happen. Do you wish to condemn her to that?
George: [crying] She's just a little girl. She can't die, it's cruel!
Rube: [gently] It is cruel. It's cruel she won't know what life's really like. It's cruel that she'll miss out on so much love and pain and beauty, and that's sad for everyone in the world except for her. She won't give a rat's ass, she'll be doing something different. That's just the way it is.
George: I... I just wanted to save her.
[George has just attended her own autopsy]
George: So, what's next? Onward and upward?
Rube: "Onward", not "upward". No pearly gates for you. No choirs of angels, either.
George: You dick! You're sendin' me to hell?
Rube: Don't flatter yourself. You're not that interesting.
Data Entry Guy: Files don't just disappear.
George: They do if you drop them down an elevator shaft.
[Mason shows George how the undead look to the living]
George: Who decides what we look like?
Mason: I don't know. Maybe this is what our inner child looks like when it grows up.
George: If that were the case, it looks like my inner child's road to adulthood was paved with crack cocaine, ten-dollar blowjobs, and maybe even a trick baby or two.
George: [the toilet seat falls from the sky. George stares at it] They say your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the moment before you die... That might be true if you're terminally ill or your parachute doesn't open. But if death sneaks up on you, the only time you have to think is: "Aw, shit."
[the toilet seat hits George and explodes]
George: We lead our lives, and when they end, sometimes we leave a little of ourselves behind. Sometimes we leave money, a painting, sometimes we leave a kind word. And sometimes, we leave an empty space.
Betty: Oh, and always be nice to that lady at the DMV.
Roxy: I told that bitch that her weave looked like carpet, and now my social insurance number pulls up two bankruptcies!
Rube: You like spaghetti, George? I like spaghetti. I like board games. I like grabbing a trifecta with that longshot on top. That ozone smell you get from air purifiers. And I like knowing the space between my ears is immeasurable. Mahler's first, Bernstein conducting. You've got to think about all the things you like and decide whether they're worth sticking around for. And if they are, you'll find a way to do this.
George: And what if I don't?
Rube: Then you go away, and you don't get to like anything anymore.
George: [voiceover] Let's go for a ride. My name is Georgia Lass. I'm 18 years old and I'm down there. somewhere
George: I'm going to tell you a story, not my story, that's later, this is just a story... Ready? Once upon a time, or more specifically at the dawn of time, god, lower case "g", was getting busy with creation, as the kids these days are saying. He gave Toad a clay jar and said, "Be careful with this. It's got death inside". Pleased as punch and oblivious to the fact that he was about to become god's fall guy on the whole death issue, Toad promised to guard the jar. Then one day Toad met Frog. "Let me hold the jar of death, or what ever you call it", Frog begged. With a nod to Nancy Reagan's pros of wisdom, Toad just said no. But Frog was determined, and after much whining Toad finally gave in. "You can hold it, but only for a second", he said. In his excitement, Frog began to hop around and juggle the death jar from one foot to the other. Frog was an asshole. "Stop!" Toad cried out, but it was to late. Frog dropped the jar and it shattered to the ground. When it broke open, death got out, and ever since then all living things have to die. Makes you wonder how much better the world would be if frogs just stuck to hawking beer. So there you have it, the mystery of death finally revealed. We all die, some of us sooner then later. For me it's going to be much sooner. But that's only the beginning of my story.
[a flaming toilet seat is about to hit George]
George: Oh, shit.