Also, we’re not terrorists. We’re therapists . For America’s sense of humor. Epilogue Neha dumps Rohan. She kisses Kumar. But then she slaps him.
He chases them through a minefield. The mines are, of course, marked with little red flags. Kumar steps on one. It’s a dud.
It’s not prasad , Kumar. It’s hydroponic bhang from that Rastafarian halwai in Jackson Heights. We are going to your ex-girlfriend’s wedding to stop it, not get arrested!
The final shot: Harold and Kumar are sitting on Marine Drive, sharing a chillum. The moon is out. The cops are approaching.
Bhai… ek aur baar?
HAROLD (30, neatly pressed khaki pants, anxiety disorder) is pacing. KUMAR (30, faded Kurta pajama, red eyes, smelling of cloves) is trying to convince a TSA agent that his grandmother’s mithai dabba is not a weapon.
(jumping out of a fake palki ): "Ruko! Yeh log Al-Qaeda ke bhakt hain!" (Stop! These are Al-Qaeda devotees!)
Harold is in an orange jumpsuit. Kumar is trying to befriend a guard by teaching him how to make aloo paratha using prison chow.
You two are Taliban!
"You could have just called. You didn't have to start an international incident."
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