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: Robert's weird. He doesn't like to go out to eat because he has a fear of busboys. He can't carry his dollar bills facing each other because it would be like they're kissing.
Debra: That's just quirky.
Ray: Yeah? Quirky? He separates his Good 'n Plenties into "goods" and "plenties." Which one is which again?
Robert: Never mind.
Ray: No, no, go ahead. Go ahead.
Robert: The pinks are the "goods," and the whites are the "plenties." 'Cause there's always more of them. And they're not as good. And then there's a third category of "irregulars."
Ray: And they're called...
Robert: "Cuties."
Ray: I rest my case.

Debra: Wow.
Ray: Yeah. Wow.
Debra: Wow!
Ray: Wowie wowie wowie wowie wow!
Ray: 85 minutes! 85 minutes!
Debra: I know. 85 minutes. It's my new favorite number.
Ray: Wait, it could even be more if you count traffic.
Debra: Traffic? We have never had traffic between us. Traffic! Ooh.
Ray: Although it would be weird. I mean, they've always been right across the street. I can't imagine them not being there. Actually, I can.
Debra: Me too.
Ray: Shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it.

Debra: She wanted to hear the twins tell their "knock, knock" joke, and I told her it was a bad time and we went upstairs.
Ray: Ha. Did they do the Goliath one?
Debra: No, l...
Ray: 'Cause that's a good one. Knock, knock. Say "Who's there?"
Debra: What is with your family?
Ray: Come on. Say "Who's there?"
Debra: Who's there?
Ray: Goliath.
Debra: Goliath who?
Ray: Goliath down. You looketh tired.