If I'd wanted this place to fill up with every fat Irish rose that passes by, I'd've said so.

There isn't anyone anywhere who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know — listen to me, now — don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

Do it for the fat lady!

There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.