“I’ll be the judge of my own manliness.”

It’s all about what they can get out of me.

I didn’t want to be known as Madonna’s playboy, her boy toy.

When I hit bottom, I can attack the problem and get to where I want to be.

Shaq is not the man. He’s the man because the NBA wants him to be the man, but before you can be the man, you’ve got to be the man.

I don’t trust what this life has given me.

I’m just saying I’m being myself, and people understand that.

I lost $35,000 in less than a week at the Mirage in Las Vegas.

They say Elvis is dead. I say, no, you’re looking at him. Elvis isn’t dead; he just changed color.

Why should I try to make you believe the things I believe in?

It’s a different story because guess what, the kid is only 28 years old, 28. He’s not his dad, not his grandpa. He’s 28 years old.

I’m the basketball version of a gravedigger.

You watch some teams these days and you wonder if they just met on the playground and decided to choose up sides.

I can score 20 points if I want to, but that’s not my desire.

There’s no image we can’t improve.

To hang out in a gay bar or put on a sequined halter top makes me feel like a total person.

I don’t want to be bulky and stiff.

When I find him to be envious, carping, spiteful, hating the successes of others, and complaining that the world has never done enough for him, I am apt to doubt whether his humility before God will atone for his want of manliness.

Because it is in the nature of things that they become extreme, we have passed down from manliness to cruelty. If I had been told when I was 20 that there was a tavern in the town where the brave and the cruel were gathered together,