Norm: Carla, do you suppose?
Carla: Oh, no, no. No, Norm. Don't look at me. I got four kids and I sure ain't looking for anymore.
Norm: I'm not asking you to have sex with the guy.
Carla: Doesn't matter. I'm what you call a fast breeder. A man winks at me and I'm three months along.

Norm: [enters] Afternoon, everybody.
All: Norm!
Diane: Norman.
Coach: How's life, Norm?
Norm: Not for the squeamish, Coach.

Diane: Norman, perhaps I can give you an idea that you could actually use. I think parties are the most fun when you can shed your everyday mundane identity and be someone else. Back in college, I held a party where everyone came as their favorite Elizabethan poet. I remember... It was so great, I chose Christopher Marlowe because I was deeply into Dr. Faustus at the time. But I still get letters from people who loved it, Norman. Loved it.
Sam: Say, didn't we used to have a weekly Elizabethan Poet Night?
Norm: Yeah, started getting too rowdy.
Cliff: Oh, yeah, yeah. Yeah, I remember the night you were charged with practicing iambic pentameter without a licence.
Diane: You know, Sam, if I'm to serve both as a waitress and the butt of jokes, I should make more money.
Carla: Yeah, what does a good butt make in this town?
Diane: Okay, Norman, in keeping with the spirit of this establishment, and its patrons, I suggest you get totally down in the mud and throw a toga party.
Norm: A toga party? You mean, where they dress up in sheets?
Diane: Oh, I'm sure you'd love it. It's a stupid fraternity tradition where a bunch of borderline humans stand around swilling beer and vomiting on themselves, until the inevitable denouement when they raise their robes to reveal the depths of their personalities.