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.

Ray: Ma, I saw that girl eat a fly!
Marie: Stop it, Raymond! Why can't you just accept that your brother is different? I accept you, Robbie.
Robert: Listen, Ma, I would love nothing more than to tell you I'm gay.
Frank: Marie, look what you're doing!
Robert: But I'm not, Dad, all right? So you can unclench your intestines. I wish I had a good reason why I'm always striking out. But I don't. It's me. It's me. Most people find their other half. And I just have to wake up and accept already that maybe there is no other half... for this.
Marie: Oh, Robbie!
Robert: See you later.

Ray: All right, listen, Mrs. Gorman, I was just seeing if maybe I could get you to take your pills.
Mrs. Gorman: Fix my radio, I'll take a pill.
Ray: I don't know how to fix a radio.
Mrs. Gorman: Then you've used up what's left of my life for nothing.
Ray: Okay then. Well, nice talking to you, ma'am.
Mrs. Gorman: You sit in the press box?
Ray: What, at the game?
Mrs. Gorman: Yeah. I've never sat in a press box before.
Ray: Well, um, if you want to sit in a press box, you've got to get better. And if you want to get better you've got to take your pills.
Mrs. Gorman: Oh, you tricky, tricky white boy.