Cliff: Oh, yeah. See, as a rule, your, uh, psycho killers don't have families. Nah, they're, uh, they're loners. They may have jobs, they're good to their mothers, but, by and large, they sit alone at night in a dark room, writing their depraved thoughts in a diary.
Norm: Cliffie, you keep a diary, don't you?
Cliff: l, uh, keep a journal, Norm. A journal!

Cliff: I got something to add to the conversation. If a 100-megaton warhead detonated over the city of Boston, the results would be so horrific that the survivors would envy the dead.
Norm: We weren't having a conversation, Cliff.
Cliff: Well! Then food for thought.

Woody: Well, how are we going to get in there, Sam? Don't they lock the Garden at night?
Cliff: Oh, hey, Woody, don't worry about those locks. We can get past any one of them, with my trusty Swiss Army Knife. [chuckles] Yeah, I got the big one with the, uh, tweezer-toothpick combo. Yeah.
Woody: That's a beauty, Mr. Clavin.
Cliff: Yeah, thanks, Woody. Yeah, every soldier in the Swiss Army owns one of these. That's why nobody messes with Switzerland. Yeah, I'd rather run buck naked through the neighborhood than be without this baby.
Norm: Why is that always the other option?

Cliff: Pretty good eats, huh, Norm?
Norm: Not bad for a two-year-old. l, myself, have been enjoying these teeny little tuna fish sandwiches shaped like tiny little dinosaurs.
Cliff: Yeah, quite ironic actually, uh, seeing as how tuna, known in Latin as Pisces middayicus roughly translated as "lunch fish" was, uh, was not a contemporary of the, uh, prehistoric reptilian land wanderers.

Cliff: Hey, Norm, look at this. I just got myself a brand-new video camera.
Norm: Ooh, nice one. Looks kind of expensive.
Cliff: Oh, yeah, it is, it is, but it- it'll pay for itself in no time at all.
Norm: Yeah?
Cliff: Yeah. Yeah, I plan to stage some footage for those programs, you know, like America's Funniest Home Videos, Rescue 911, Nightline, stuff like that.
Norm: Cliff, I don't think Nightline is staged.
Cliff: You are so naive.

Sam: Hey, Cliffie, how're you doing?
Cliff: Not well, Sam. Boy, am I mad! I've never been this upset! Boy, three words, fellas. Three words: Dames is grief.
Norm: Fighting with Ma, huh?
Cliff: Oh, and how. It seems like that's all we do anymore. You know, you'd think it'd be a perfect set-up mother and a grown son living in a one bedroom apartment. But no. Reality check, gentlemen. Life is not like the movies, I guess, huh?
Sam: I'm sure it'll all blow over, Cliffie.
Cliff: No, no way, Sammy, not this time. I tell you that broad's pushed me too hard. Too hard, I tell you. It's about time I started pushing back. She's just gone and created a monster, that's all. But this monster is not gonna lie in some tomb of ice. No, sirree. My anger will melt that ice, so that I might rise up and, and crush the Tokyo of the buildings there beneath the talons of my animosity...
Frasier: Cliff, Cliff. We all appreciate how hard you're working on this metaphor, but we get the idea.

Sam: One by one, I seem to be losing my, uh thrills and, uh, tingles, you know? I keep asking myself, "What- What is the point to life?"
Woody: Whoo, that's a tough question.
Sam: Yeah.
Cliff: Eh. Well, I got the answer.
Frasier: Somehow, I knew you would.
Cliff: Comfortable shoes.
Frasier: Shoes?
Cliff: Yeah, if you're not wearing comfortable shoes, life is just chaos. I mean, the greatest accomplishments in history have been made by men wearing accommodating shoes. Uh, Frasier, tell me, who do you think is the greatest thinker in all mankind?
Frasier: I don't know, uh, Aristotle.
Cliff: There you go. Sandals. Perhaps the most comfortable shoe there is. You hardly even know you have them on. I mean, Confucius, thongs. Einstein, loose loafers.
Woody: Wow.

Cliff: Big news, everybody. Put down your beer mugs and hold on to your barstools. Me and Ma just got a new neighbor, moved into our apartment building little guy, about a hundred years old, up from South America, thick German accent, little mustache right about here. Likes to paint. I think you know where I'm going with this.
Frasier: Sweet Lord, I'll bet I do.
Cliff: Yep, Adolf Hitler is living in my apartment building.
Norm: Cliff, I don't even know why I have to tell you this, but Hitler is dead. He died at the end of World War ll in that bunker.
Cliff: Oh, yeah, really? Were you at the bunker?
Norm: Yeah, as a matter of fact...
Frasier: Cliff, throughout the years, we've become accustomed to your... Oh, how shall I delicately put this? Uh... madness. Now, for my own peace of mind, please assure me that you're not going to march up to this man and accuse him of being der Fuhrer.
Cliff: No, my accusations won't come until after I complete my investigation. The case will be rock solid, and it'd better be. l- I've been wrong twice before, you know.

Sam: Oh, come on. This is not degrading. Diane, in Boston, this is considered a very big honor.
Cliff: Yeah. Yeah. Di, it's really big, you know. It's not as big as Mail Carrier of the Year, of course, but it's up there.
Paul: Mail Carrier of the Year? Who do they give that to? A postman or a pigeon?
Cliff: Hey, watch your mouth.
Paul: It was just a joke.
Cliff: Yeah? Well, don't you ever, repeat, ever, joke about the US postal service in front of me or any other mail carrier. All right?
Norm: He didn't mean anything at all by it.
Cliff: Yeah, I'd like to see how fat and sassy he'd be without his daily mail. I'm sorry, Normie, I just don't know what came over me.
Norm: That's OK. You had every right.
Cliff: Well, the Post Office is everybody's target. But when they want a letter fast, huh, who do they come to on their knees?
Paul: Federal Express.
Cliff: He's mine!

Cliff: So while it's a common belief that the Tyrannosaurus rex was the king of the dinosaurs, you know, as a-- As indicated by the appellative "-saurus," the smartest of the spiny reptiles was actually the thyropatroid.