Dr. Isiah Friedlander: Your son, James. He's a good kid?
Michael De Santa: He's a good kid? A good kid? Why? Does he help the fucking poor? No. He sits on his ass all day, smoking dope and jerking off while he plays that fucking game. If that's our standard for goodness... then no wonder this country's screwed.
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: And what about you?
Michael De Santa: What about me? Hey... I didn't have the advantages that kid has. By the time I was his age, I'd already been in prison twice. I robbed banks. I ran whores. I smuggled dope.
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: And you consider them achievements?
Michael De Santa: These were the opportunities I had. At least I took 'em.
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: And where did these opportunities get you, Michael?
Michael De Santa: They got me right... fucking here! The end of the road! With a big house and a useless kid and I'm stuck talking to you because no one else gives a shit. Oh I'm living the dream, baby, and that dream is fucked! It is... fucking fucked!
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: Let it all out.
Michael De Santa: I think I just did.
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: Oh, well I, think that's all we have time for... Same time next week?
Michael De Santa: I guess...
(Michael begins to leave Dr. Isiah Friedlander's office)
Michael De Santa: I gotta tell you, I ain't too sure this shit is working for me.
Dr. Isiah Friedlander: Hm. Well, a sense of overriding futility is a vital part of the process. Embrace it.
Michael De Santa: What ever you say, Doc.
(Michael leaves Dr. Isiah Friedlander's office and walks along a path, seeing a homeless man stumble)
Michael De Santa: I know just how you feel.
(Michael sits down on the bench while Franklin and Lamar walk by)
Lamar Davis: Man, shit gotta be around here somewhere.
Franklin Clinton: Unless they buried it under the sand, fool. Another brilliant Lamar Davis production.
Lamar Davis: Man, fuck you.
(Lamar turns to talk to Michael)
Lamar Davis: Hey, excuse me, homie, can you tell me where Bertolt Beach House is?
Michael De Santa: No, homie, I cannot.
Franklin Clinton: Man, would you come on? Fuck!
Michael De Santa: Actually, yeah. It's that house right there, with the yellow stairs.
Lamar Davis: Yeah, good looking out homie, appreciate it.
(Franklin and Lamar continue to walk towards Bertolt Beach House)
Franklin Clinton: Man, get your stupid ass on. Damn! Why don't you ask him if he knows the fucking owner? Or better yet, do some sky writing that reads there's a couple of people here about to boost some cars in case somebody didn't realize.
Lamar Davis: See, what you don't realize, is that we ain't boosting. This shit is legit business.
Franklin Clinton: Legit? Oh yeah, I forgot, huh? 401Ks, tax returns and all. Yeah, right.
Lamar Davis: You the one all pumped up on doing this lick, Frank. I'm getting my money in the hood. I'm straight, fool. I'm cool.
Franklin Clinton: You cool? Cool what? Slinging dope and throwing up gang signs? Yeah, right.
