Rebecca: It was there. I was holding it. It was right in my hands, and now it's gone.
Woody: Well, maybe we can glue it back together and no one will ever know. [looks in the kitchen] Forget that.
Rebecca: Oh!
Sam: Just calm down now. Calm down. It was an accident. I'm sure Mr. Collier will understand.
Rebecca: No, he won't. This isn't the first time I've goofed up at the company. I started out as a junior executive and I'm diligently working my way down to the mailroom with a brief stopover at that Siberia called Cheers. [sobs]
Sam: Shh-shh. Stop it. Just calm down here. Calm down.
Rebecca: I know. I'll just resign now, move back to San Diego, join the Navy, grow old and die.

Rebecca: This is Daniel T. Collier, the chairman of the board, the chief executive officer of Lillian.
All: Oh.
Norm: Sammy, don't you have, like, the slightest bit of guilt selling this bar to a corporation named Lillian?
Rebecca: Well, we used to be called Drax Chemical, Dye and Munitions, but people had trouble believing our motto: "We care about people."

Linda: Another Manhattan.
Sam: Manhattan, huh? I own a lot of that, you know?
Linda: Right, the eccentric millionaire routine.
Sam: You know, I got to tell you the truth here. I'm getting kind of bored serving all these stiffs drinks. What do you say you and I go out and spend some of my money? What time does France close anyway?
Linda: I think they're remodeling.
Sam: Oh.
Linda: Have any other suggestions?
Sam: Unfortunately, my mansion's being painted and my yacht's in dry dock. Well, let me see... Oh, I know it. I know it. You know, my chauffeur's got a little one-bedroom apartment downtown. What do you say you and I go slumming?

Rebecca: I have been asked to organize a cocktail party for Mr. Daniel T. Collier.
Norm: Ooh, Daniel T. Collier, the lemon wafer king?
Hugh: No, no, that's Donald P. Cooper.
Tim: Hey, I love those lemon wafers.
Pete: You ever dip them in cocoa and try to get them out without breaking them?
Frasier: Yeah, yeah. Do you know you can make a mock apple pie with those?
Norm: Excuse me. Those are Ritz Crackers.
Rebecca: Stop talking about wafers!

Norm: All right, order me a size 11.
Cliff: Normie, Normie, Normie, these are not your assembly line clodhoppers. These are precisely machine-measured.
Norm: How do I do it then?
Cliff: Just trace your tootsies on a cocktail napkin over here, fellas, all right?
Woody: I'll tell you. This brings back memories of my dad when I was a kid.
Frasier: Did you all always used to order your shoes through the mail?
Woody: No, he was always getting taken by some huckster.

Carla: Oh! Oh! [gasping]
Woody: Sam, I think Carla has a drink order.
Sam: Sweetheart, are you all right?
Carla: Sammy, I think this could be it. I think the twins are coming.
Sam: Oh.
Carla: Ooh, ooh! [groans]
Rebecca: What do you know? The Sixers are in town tonight. Isn't it amazing how Carla's labor pains always seem to coincide with Celtic home games?
Carla: Hey, hey, hey, hey! Wait a minute. Now, you think that I would exploit this beautiful thing called motherhood just to go to some stupid basketball game? [groaning] I'm insulted!
Rebecca: Carla, I'm not falling for it this time. You can scream till you shatter every glass in this bar, but you're not going anywhere. [Carla groans]
Sam: Sweetheart, you're just going to have to give birth right here in the bar. Come on. It won't be that bad. Remember, the last kid you had here was no big deal. All you had to do was a little snip-snip and a quick mop-up and you were right back on your feet. [Carla groans]
Rebecca: Let me call you a cab, Carla.
Carla: [talks normally] It's all right. I got one waiting. Thank you.
Sam: Hey, uh, there wouldn't happen to be another seat in the delivery room, would there?
Carla: No, no. There are only seats for me and Eddie, Sam. Oh, come on. Maybe next... child. [groans]

Cliff: [sings] When there's a shine on your shoes There's a melody in your heart Shiny shoes, huh? Shiny shoes, shiny shoes. Ah, gents, notice anything different about me today?
Norm: Okay, I'll go out on a limb. New shoes?
Cliff: Yes, siree, Normie. And for a limited time only, thanks to the US Postal Service, you, too, can be saying to your feet, "Thanks for your support."
Frasier: Are we to deduce from this, Cliff, that you are now selling mail-order shoes?
Cliff: I am not selling shoes here, Doctor. I'm selling dreams. Dreams of a little cobbler in Missouri who pours his heart into every sole.
Norm: Actually, Cliff, with a pair of dark socks those could look halfway decent.

Rebecca: Sam, if you were throwing a party, would you order Dom Perignon or Cristal?
Sam: Cristal.
Rebecca: Dom Perignon it is, then.
Sam: This is getting insulting. You know, I don't think that she respects us.
Woody: What do you mean "us," Sam? You're the one who goofed up that champagne thing.

Sam: Woody, come on, man. We're a team.
Woody: Is that the insulting part?
Sam: This- The point is, she doesn't think that we're worthy of hanging around with her society friends. She thinks we're nincompoops.
Woody: Nincompoops? Let's go, Sam. We're going to talk to her.
Sam: What?
Woody: Nobody calls Woody Boyd a nincompoop. Except my dad.

Rebecca: Sam, now, look. Really, why do you care? Why on Earth do you want to work this party?
Sam: All right, you know, by not hiring us, what you're doing is you're telling the rest of the world that Sam Malone is not fit for the society of decent folks, that he's incompetent, that he's a clod.
Woody: What about me, Sam?
Sam: You, too, Woody. I'm going to tell you something, lady. We may not have come out of Harvard. We may not belong to a yacht club. We may not have tended bar at a polo tournament, but we know how to do our job and we do it with dignity and class.
Rebecca: You're right. I'm sorry. The job is yours.
[After Sam and Woody celebrate, Woody gets a piggyback from Sam as they leave Rebecca's office]