Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
Wonder Woman:
It's all true, isn't it, Steve? Everything my mother warned me about man's world is true. She even told me you'd try to seduce me, and I, like a fool, told her, "For now, let's only expect the best from the pilot." You tried to get me drunk. As if you could out drink an Amazon, you pathetic lightweight.
Col. Steve Trevor:
[Sees thugs approaching] Oh, crap.
Wonder Woman:
[Unaware of the thugs] Yes, I knew exactly what you were trying to do. And please don't use that language around me.
