What could you possibly want from me in exchange for my support? Because I’m telling you right now, I am not dating that daughter of yours.

Oh, Bob! When I heard you were up on the roof, I just naturally assumed it was because your evil mission here on planet earth had finally come to an end; so, tell me this: where, exactly, is the mother ship?

Give my ex-wife, here, a physical. And don’t be afraid of that third eye on her chest. Just remember, it’s just as scared of you as you are of it.

Despite the fact that when you wake up tomorrow morning you will be a resident, you’ll still be the same excitable little girl that you are right now; the only difference will be that some sorry new intern will probably mistake you for somebody who actually knows something.

Mr. Bober, back there, is one of our frequent flyers; he’s been with us every six months for the last two years, and I’ve grown rather fond of him. So if you could somehow manage to not kill him, well then – oh, gee — that would just be ducky.

Oh, come on — what the hell, Newbie. This gentleman is suffering from an inflamed gallbladder, and you actually have him eating a grilled-cheese sandwich. Hhhere’s an idea: why don’t we just have him wash the whole thing down with a big ol’ mug of vodka.

Congratulations! Your Dimaggio-like streak for saying nothing even remotely interesting is still alive and well!

They hate you, Bob. They hate you from the bottom of your hooves to the top of your pitchfork. They hate you, dear God, they hate you good.

Okay, here’s the deal. If we’re gonna beat this thing, and we damn sure are, we’re gonna do it one way and one way only. We’re gonna be a team! We’re gonna be a team, team, team, team, team! You hear me?

All right, Clara, you can go ahead and order yourself a Cosmopolitan; we’ll just grab a cab home.