Agent Garfield: Mrs. Barone, you seem like an intelligent woman.
Marie: Thank you. Have a cookie.
Agent Garfield: Do you really think that a mother interfering to the extent that you have could possibly help a man get a job with the FBI? There's something else going on.
Marie: He was supposed to retire! He's a year away from not being a police officer. Which means I could stop worrying about him every second of the day. I want him to be safe. Now he wants to go from one dangerous job to another? How long do I have to walk around with a knot in my stomach? Forever? I can't do it anymore. It's too much! But he wants this job. It'll make him happy. And he should be happy. So, yes, he should have this job. Please, give him this job.
Agent Garfield: I can't do that.
Marie: No. No, don't blame him, you can punish me! Put one of those tracking things on my legs so I can't get out of the house. And if you met my husband, you'd know that's punishment enough.

Marie: Raymond, do you see what they see?
Ray: Um... I don't know.
Marie: No, tell me the truth.
Ray: Well... Maybe if I squint a little.
Marie: Oh, my God, I'm a lesbian!

Debra: First of all, it's not a book. It's pieces of construction paper.
Ray: You sound a bit close-minded.
Debra: Hey. Eileen, you have no idea what I have to put up with. When I got married, I didn't just get a husband, I got a whole freak show that set up their tent right across the street. And that- That would be fine, if they stayed there. But every day... Every day, they dump a truckload of their insane family dreck into my lap. How would you like to sit through two people in their 60s fighting over who invented the lawn? The lawn! And then the brother, "I live in an apartment. I don't even have a lawn. Raymond has a lawn." But you can't blame him when you see who the mother is. She has this kind of sick hold on the both of them. And the father's about as disgusting a creature as God has ever dropped onto this planet. So no wonder the kid writes stories! I should be writing stories. My life is a Gothic novel! And until you have lived in that house, with all of them in there with you day after day, week after week, year after friggin' year, you are in no position to judge me!

Ray: Yeah, my mom said I need to sign some insurance form for her. And also ask about a rollaway bed for me.
Scott: Yes, Mr. Barone, I'm glad you came by. We need your parents to move out.
Ray: What?
Scott: I'm sorry to be so blunt, but there have been a number of issues, and they need to go.
Debra: Wait a minute. You're kicking them out?
Scott: Yes.
Debra: I don't understand. Frank and Marie seem incredibly happy here.
Scott: I assure you, they're the only ones. Your father's been tearing around on his golf cart endangering pedestrians.
Ray: Oh?
Scott: When our security guards warn your father, he turns his cart and aims for them. One time he shouted, uh "Hit the monkey, win a cookie!" If this were the only issue, we might be able to work through it. But your father's overall demeanor is sort of like a maniac. One night we caught him inside the walk-in fridge eating an entire bologna.

Ray: Yes, oh yes! Once, we snuck out to go to the Jethro Tull concert, and he stole a bottle of peppermint schnapps from your liquor cabinet!
Robert: He's lying!
Frank: Yeah, I know he is 'cause I had that cabinet padlocked.
Ray: Yes, that's why he had to inch it away from the wall and pop out the back panel.
Marie: You drank?
Frank: You popped out the back panel?
Ray: And after the concert, Robert was so schnockered, he wanted to fight anybody who didn't agree that "Bungle in the Jungle" was the best song ever written.
Robert: That's a great song... but this is lies!
Ray: Then, I remember the next morning he threw up in the living room, and you wanted to know why the house smelled like mint vomit.
Marie: You told me you had a bad candy cane. Oh, Frank, our sons are juvenile delinquents!

Debra: Okay, Ally. Daddy's going to be home any minute with dinner, so let's clean up. [Ally doesn't respond] Sweetie, why don't you take all your dolls off the table and wash your hands, okay?
Ally: Grandma, look.
Debra: Ally, please clean up.
Marie: Oh, isn't that nice? What's this one, a streetwalker?
Debra: No, she's an aerobics instructor, Marie. She's dressed for the gym. Ally, can you look at me? Are you having trouble listening?