Cliff: All right, here's a little-known fact. The smartest animal...
Norm: Yeah?
Cliff: ...is the pig.
Norm: What? They look pretty stupid.
Cliff: Yeah, your average oinker. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Scientists say if a pig had thumbs and a language, he could be trained to do manual labor.
Norm: You mean they'd be part of the workforce?
Cliff: Yeah, yeah. They'd give you 30 years of loyal service, then at the retirement dinner, you could eat 'em.

Diane: This is a night I will never forget. It so happens that I am on speaking terms with one of the poetry editors at The Atlantic Monthly. Yes, he spoke at my college once. I'm going to call him and tell him about you.
Sam: Wait. Hey, aren't you getting a little carried away here?
Diane: May I have the phone? Yes, and loving it.
Sam: Humoring the guy is one thing. I mean, he can have all the fantasies he wants in my bar. But don't you think you're going too far to make him feel good.
Diane: Sam, the poem he wrote is excellent. Scratch a liar, find a poet.
Sam: So he memorized one. What's that prove?
Diane: Sam, we are now in my area of expertise. When we want to talk about poetry, we come to me. When we want to talk about jock itch, we come to you.

Diane: You bellowed?
Sam: Yeah. Yeah, I did. What are you trying to do?
Diane: I don't believe that guy's a spy for one minute. I think he's lying.
Sam: What? A customer in a bar is telling tall tales just to impress a waitress? Call 60 Minutes.
Diane: All right, when you put it that way. The thing is...
Sam: Look. Look, listen, why do you suppose people come to bars in the first place?
Diane: Oh, let me take a wild stab at that one. Perchance to drink?
Sam: Wrong. Wrong. They could do that at home. They come here to shoot off their mouths and get away with it. Listen, in this bar everybody gets to be a hero. Now, what's the harm?