Mollyfogging

One of the best scenes takes place in a bar where a group of washed up henchmen are lamenting the fact that everybody wants flashy, costumed villains these days and a simple honest crook can't make a mollyfoggin' living unless he puts on a fruity mask and cape.

Um...no. See, that is the mollyfoggin' quod that we are trying to demonstrandificate^([sic]), you see. Simply assuming it to be true doesn't make it so.

Something as momentous—as downright mollyfogging, ripsnorting, billy-o blazes as this—required something more. Fireworks, a U. S. Military marching band, a full-dress parade. A Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey three-ring ex-trav-a-ganza. Something.

“Go ahead. Try me. The next one of you peckerwoods who sprays burning lighter fluid into my locker, boosts the tape deck out of my car or pees on the upholstery, hits me in the back of the head in the hallway with a johnny-mop canister or a urinal puck, tries any mackin' or jackin' in the back of the class, seals up this room with Krazy Glue so I can't get out, makes goomba-goomba sounds and asks the substitute teacher if she's got life insurance, or refers to me as 'you mollyfoggin' lamehead,' is gonna get a new hole in his nose.”