Chubbs: Hey, I'll bet your neighbour the accountant, can't drive the ball 400 yards. I'll bet your neighbour the accountant doesn't have a shot to get on the Pro Tour!
Happy Gilmore: And how would I do that?
Chubbs: You win the Open tomorrow, and you're automatically on the Pro Tour. Then who knows, maybe you'll win the Tour Championship. Get that gold jacket that I never got.
Happy Gilmore: Gold jacket, Green jacket, who gives a shit.

Chubbs: It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips. It's all in the hips.
Happy Gilmore: Get off of me.
Chubbs: Just easing the tension, baby. Just easing the tension.
Happy Gilmore: Yeah, well ease it on someone else.

Happy Gilmore: Oh, man. That was so much easier than putting. I should just try to get the ball in one shot every time.
Chubbs: Good plan.

Chubbs: Back in 1965, Sports Illustrated said I was going to be the next Arnold Palmer.
Happy Gilmore: Yeah? What happened?
Chubbs: They wouldn't let me play on the Pro Tour anymore.
Happy Gilmore: Ah, I'm sorry. Because you're black?
Chubbs: Hell no! Damned alligator BIT my hand off!
[Shows Happy his wooden hand]
Happy Gilmore: OH MY GOD!
Chubbs: Yeah. tournament down in Florida. I hooked my ball in the rough down by the lake. Damned alligator just POPPED up, cut me down on my prime. He got me, but I tore one of the bastard's eyes out though. Look at that.
[Shows Happy a small glass jar with an eyeball in it]
Happy Gilmore: You're pretty sick, Chubbs.

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