Frasier: You know, Sam, there's one way to get Rebecca that you've overlooked.
Sam: Hold that self-respect thought. What do you got?
Frasier: You see, it's been psychologically documented that all human animals have a neurotic hair-trigger response to at least one of the five sensory stimuli. Well, it could be anything, actually. Oh, it's the sound of the surf pounding against the shore, the smell of honeysuckle on a warm summer night, the taste of a vintage Chateauneuf du Pape, fire-red fingernails dancing through your chest hair... a black lace teddy straining against its fleshy cargo.
Sam: Frasier, man, snap out of it.
Frasier: In a minute, Sam.

Cliff: Woody, a bottle of bubbly, tout de suite.
Norm: All right, Cliffie's in a celebrating mood. That hearing must have gone pretty well, huh?
Cliff: Perfect, Norm. Margaret was completely exonerated.
Norm: You really snowed 'em, huh?
Cliff: Like a blizzard in Buffalo, my friend. Yeah, I told the supervisor that we were set upon by some armed thugs who then commandeered the vehicle and took it for a joyride.
Norm: A joyride in a mail truck? Cliffie, I've beaten those things on foot.
Carla: Clavin, what's come over you? I mean you're lying to your superiors, you're breaking rules, you're covering up. It's almost like you're developing a personality.
Cliff: Well, Carla, the King of England abdicated his throne for the love of a good woman. The least I could do is tell a little fib. Well, as we say down at the post office, here's looking up your address.

Norm: Uh-oh, Cliff, greenhorn alert.
Margaret: Excuse me, Cliff Clavin?
Cliff: I am.
Margaret: I'm your trainee, Margaret O'Keefe.
Cliff: Straighten up, O'Keefe. You're in uniform. I wasn't informed you were a woman.
Margaret: Sorry, sir.
Cliff: Well, no offense, sister, but I just don't believe that women belong in the trenches. I mean, they're fine for sorting mail or selling stamps, but when you're lugging a 40-pound sack up a hill with a Nor'easter hitting you right smack in the kisser, you don't have time to fret about going home and soaking your delicates.
Margaret: I wear cotton briefs, sir.
Cliff: That'll be enough of that, O'Keefe.