Strudwick: Dick, stop thinking about yourself. Try thinking about our kids. They've got no education, no jobs, no homes to live in.
Dick: You're right. They have nothing. They're screwed. Our only choice is to write them off.
Strudwick: It's not that simple. There's going to be a baby.
Dick: A baby. So pure. So small. So not-so-screwed-up yet.
Strudwick: It's a lot of work. It takes a village, you know.
Dick: Yeah, but don't you see? We have a shot with a grandkid. It's the next generation. Nature's do-over.
Strudwick: I don't know.
Dick: Just picture it. That first magical moment. You're holding your perfect grandchild in your arms. He looks into your eyes, reaches up with his tiny fingers, touches your grizzly red stubble and says, "I wuv you, Pop-pop."
Strudwick: We can make this work.
Dick: I propose a toast. [hands out mini coffee creamers]
Strudwick: All right.
Dick: To our grandchild.
Strudwick: To our grandchild.
Dick: May he or she inherit the best from both grandfathers.
Don: [storms in] All right, dirtbags! You're gonna get what's coming to you!
Dick: Don't shoot! We're gonna have a baby!