Friends, TWoPpers, countrymen -- lend me your screens. I come to bury Joey, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with Joey. The noble Chaseus hath told you Joey was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault and grievously has Josephus Pantus answered it.
Let but the people hear this testament and they would go and kiss dead Joey's wounds and dip their napkins in his sacred blood, yea, beg a hair of him for memory, and, dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue.
Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have overshot myself to tell you of it.
For Anthony, as you know, was Joey's boss --- judge, oh you gods, how dearly he loved him. This was the most unkindest cut of all!
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Chaseus is; but, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, that loves my show and that they know full well hath gave me public leave to speak of it -- for I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action nor utterance, nor the power of speech to stir men's blood.
Here was a Caesar! When comes another?
Alan Ball: So, did you get the memo?
David Chase: Oh, Christ. Please tell me they didn't renew Binder again.
Alan Ball: Nope. We're golden, baby!
David Chase: What do you mean?
Alan Ball: Dude! We're paying ten. Million. Dollars. Per year! There's no way Sorkin gets the trophy now.
David Chase: Come on. You know you can't just buy an award like that.
Alan Ball: Why not? Steinbrenner does it all the time.
Fade up on a jam-packed courtroom, where a curiously goateed Michael Jackson is testifying against Winona Ryder. Psyche! It's actually Uncle Junior's trial, and the most hideously boring lawyer since Matlock is droning on about his witness list. Mercifully, we quickly cut to the outside, where Junior is leading a gaggle of reporters down the courthouse steps. By the way, is it actually a "gaggle"? Or is it a herd? A pride? A flock? A sloth? Actually, I guess it really doesn't matter. They're all shouting questions at him, but it's not until attractive young reporter Allison Pak calls his name that Junior's ears finally perk up. When he turns to answer her, however, he gets smacked in the head with a boom mic, and ends up tumbling down the steps. Bwa! As he lies sprawled on the sidewalk, a cop runs over to dramatically inquire, "Have you been shot?" Heh. Allison -- or, as I like to call her, "The Pre-Surgical Annette Bening" -- deadpans into her camera, "I'm here at the Federal Courthouse where reputed mob boss Corrado Soprano just fell nine -- no, seven -- steps." Hee! I laughed at that line five -- no, six -- times.