George Sr.: So why don't we just let him express himself. Go ahead, son.
Michael: Um, I was going to say that you don't know who my father really is and that what has happened to us is a great injustice, that we were never really given a fair chance. But that's not the truth. We've been given plenty of chances. And maybe the Bluths just aren't worth saving. Maybe we're not that likable, you know. We're very self-centered. And my father may be the worst of us. Me, too. You know, I seem to I threaten people who I don't feel support me. He poisons them. Anyway, here's my advice to you. Go ahead and take yourself a goody bag and get out of here while you can.
Narrator: The speech was disturbing, the food inedible and the gift bags pretty frightening. And when Gob realized he wouldn't get tipped...
Gob: Wait, no, no! Where's everyone going?
Narrator: ...the service got a little worse.
Gob: No one's leaving until I get my money! I'll follow you to your cars!
Narrator: Oh, and then that old racist woman choked on Buster's thumb.
Buster: My thumb!
Narrator: All in all, it was one of the Bluth's better dinner parties.