Diane: This is one of the most amateurish, hackneyed, odious pieces of effluvium ever to wash down the pike. Listen to this drivel. "l fly through a puckish arena, where echoes dance, where echoes dance, where echoes dance" This sounds familiar.
Norm: Well, you said it three times.
Diane: This poem is plagiarized.
Sam: Oh, now I stole it? And a minute ago, you said it stunk.
Diane: It does stink. Leave it to you to not have the sense to steal something worthwhile.
Sam: Aw, you know, I realize that it's tough to have somebody come along and swipe your dreams of glory, so I will not take offense at that remark.
Diane: That poem is fraudulent, and I intend to find its true source, even if I have to search through every greeting card to do so. [Sam laughs] Believe me, Sam Malone, I will not rest until today, the blackest day in the history of literature, is blotted out for all eternity.