An art curator decides to seek revenge on his abusive boss by conning him into buying a fake Monet, but his plan requires the help of an eccentric and unpredictable Texas rodeo queen.

Lionel Shahbandar: So, how do you find London?
PJ Puznowski: Well, everybody knows the answer to that one. You turn right at Greenland.
Lionel Shahbandar: You may not realize it, Miss Puznowski, but Harry Deane knows Monet like I know... actually, I don't know anything quite like that.
PJ Puznowski: Like mama always said, if you can't tell the difference between a pig and a javelina, well, you could lose a big old chunk out of your ass.
Harry Deane: I see the painting. A reproduction though, Sir, in my opinion.
Lionel Shahbandar: Bloody hell, based on what?
Harry Deane: Based on the fact that it's hanging on a wall of a caravan, Sir. In Texas.
Lionel Shahbandar: [upon meeting] So, how do you find London?
PJ Puznowski: Well, everybody knows the answer to that one. Turn right at Greenland.
[last lines]
The Major: Fancy trying your hand at Picasso?
Harry Deane: Do you think we'd find a use for it?
The Major: Seems Donald Trump is obsessed with the fellow.
Harry Deane: And there's many a billionaire in Texas.
The Major: Mr. Deane.
Harry Deane: Oh, yes, Major, the opportunities are endless.
Lionel Shahbandar: [Preparing to have dinner with Japanese businessmen] As I said, these dinners can be difficult.
PJ Puznowski: Oh, don't worry about it, these guys seem pretty harmless.
Lionel Shahbandar: They're evil little shits. Watch me crush them.
Lionel Shahbandar: [Lionel greets Puznowski] So... how do you find London?
PJ Puznowski: Well, everybody knows the answer to that one! You turn right at Greenland!
Lionel Shahbandar: [Trying to digest it] Ha Ha Ha! Indeed!
Lionel Shahbandar: And where are you staying?
PJ Puznowski: Er, well of them big hotels downtown. I can't remember the name of it. You remember, Harry?
Harry Deane: Connaught.
PJ Puznowski: Me neither.
Martin Zaidenweber: [in goofy German accent] The baron's collection is heavily Flemish. Titian, Rubens, all the women so zaftig and heftig.
Martin Zaidenweber: I mean, how many years can you spend looking at the Walloons? Huh?
Harry Deane: Best to let the fish work the hook in himself, eh, Major?
The Major: Much the best, Mr. Deane.
The Major: [narrating] Mr. Deane, for all his talents, was given to one particular flaw. He saw the world as he wished to see it. But as we know, an optimist is simply a man who hasn't heard the news. As my time in the African Rifles had taught me, one ignores the elephant in the room at one's peril.
[bar fight erupts]
[first lines]
The Major: [narrating] This is the story of my brave, foolish friend Harry Deane. Mr. Deane's work as a curator in London had gone, he felt, largely unappreciated. He told me of countless insults suffered at the hands of his employer, Lionel Shahbandar, media tycoon, art collector, and an absolute brute of a fellow.
Lionel Shahbandar: [covered in mud] Do not touch my person! You, idiot...
Man: Yes, my lord.
Lionel Shahbandar: ...give me your boot.
PJ Puznowski: I do apologize on Merle. He just loves a brawl. Nose been broke so many times, had all the cartilage took out so there wouldn't be so much downtime between bar fights.
The Major: An expedient we might consider if we spend much more time in Texas.
The Major: Perhaps, sir, since out little caper is far from over, perhaps we should consider removing the cartilage.
Harry Deane: Don't be an ass, man. I'm hardly likely to be hit in the face a third time.
The Major: Uh, that *was* the third time, sir.
Harry Deane: This isn't a math class!

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