Kesslee: Eight, Eight, the burning eight. Between Sunday and Monday there lies a day so dark it will devastate.
Tank Girl: Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues, shoot me now, please.
Tank Girl: You gotta think about it like the first time you got laid. You just gotta say: “Daddy, are you sure this is right?”
Jet Girl: You see, this tank isn’t… isn’t…
Tank Girl: What? Just one little adjective and we’ll have a *whole* sentance. Isn’t, glad, sad… mad… Lonely…
Jet Girl: Isn’t… Operational.
Tank Girl: [seizes Jet by the throat] How do I know you’re not lying?
Jet Girl: [choking] Because if, if I was lying, your lungs would be full of cyanide gas.
[Tank releases her]
Tank Girl: Cool! So we get a new tank.
Tank Girl: (Sitting on the barrel of a tank and looking at the two male lorry drivers) Feeling a little inadequate?