Ray: Look, see. Listen. When you get the plastic off, all you do is insert the disc, you close the tray, put the selector on CD, and press "play."
Marie: We're not astronauts, Raymond.
Ray: Fine. I'll write it down for you, Ma.

Ray: I'll tell you what. My mother and my father, we're through with 'em!
Debra: You read my letter to Santa.

Frank: [chuckles] What goes around comes around, huh, Ray?
Ray: What do you mean?
Frank: Just like when you ruined my jazz records.
Ray: Oh, all right. Dad, look, we all know the story, okay, so not again.
Frank: Why not? It's a short story. Once upon a time, I had great jazz records. You were born, now I don't.
Ray: All right! You know, you've been on me for this for over 30 years.
Frank: I believe it was the winter of '69.
Ray: Will you stop it?
Frank: I had just come home from a hard day's work...

Frank: Hey, Marie, let's go. I need a damn sandwich before I get cranky.
Ray: Dad, look at all this stuff. It's just sittin' here.
Frank: What, Mount Crapmore?
Ray: This stuff, it's not crap, Dad. Mom, you should put this microwave in the kitchen. It's great. Debra has the same model.
Marie: Well, I'm sold.
Ray: Dad, you want a pot roast? You can have it in 15 minutes with this.
Marie: I can get it in 10 with this. [points to Marie]
Ray: Okay, how about this, automatic garage-door opener? You don't gotta break your back liftin' the door. [Frank points to Marie again]

Frank: This is where I used to listen to 'em. I'd come home from a hard day's work, your mother would mix me a drink, I'd come down here, put on the hi-fi, and let Duke and Dizzy take me away... from your mother.
Ray: I almost got it, Dad.
Frank: Then one day, I came down, and where my records used to be, you had set up your stupid race-car track thing. My records were over there, pushed up against the furnace. They didn't stand a chance.

Robert: Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I wanna say something. That Christmas day in 1969... Um...
Debra: What is it, Robert?
Robert: [mumbles] I'm gonna tell you what it is right now. All right. That Christmas I wanted the Hot Wheels race-track set so bad. I would see those commercials, and I would think, "This is my year, man." I could see myself setting up that beautiful bright orange track with the maroon connectors. And you know what was under the tree waitin' for me? Custom-order corrective shoes.
Marie: Well, Dr. Fishman said that they were the best for oversized feet.
Robert: I looked over, I saw Raymond elbow deep in a box of Hot Wheels. My Hot Wheels.
Ray: [gasps] You moved his records.
Robert: Excuse me. May I finish my story, please?
Amy: Go ahead, Robert.
Robert: Ah, Thank you very much, sweetie. [to Ray] I hated you. You got my Hot Wheels for Christmas. Everything I ever dreamed abou, the track, the cars, the loop-de-loop.
Ray: You moved his records.
Robert: Later that day, after Raymond was tired of playing with his new Hot Wheels for a total of four minutes, I pulled off my clunky corrective shoes and slipped downstairs. Now it was my turn. Raymond, of course, had the track set up all wrong. An oval. Oh, what a visionary you are. I wanted to set it up like the kid on the box... that happy, brotherless boy. And, in doing so your records may have been moved.
Frank: They may have?
Robert: I moved your records.

Ray: Listen, you got a CD player?
Marie: Yes, we do. Would you like it? Because we need the space.
Ray: No, Ma. We gave it to you.
Marie: And we love it.
Ray: Okay, all right, where is it?
Marie: It's over there.
Ray: Oh my God, look at all this stuff!
Marie: Ooh, would you like a popcorn popper? You didn't give us that, did you?
Ray: Here it is. The CD player Debra and I got you. And look at this, it's a clock radio. A DVD player. A microwave oven. Another microwave oven. Look at this. You didn't even finish taking the wrapping off.
Marie: Well, we don't need an electrical knife. Cutting meat is your father's only exercise.

Ray: Debra, what the hell happened to my dictionary?
Debra: Oh, yeah, Ray. I'm sorry. I was going to tell you. I caught the boys sliding down the stairs on it.
Ray: Oh, come on. It's ruined. Look at this. The leather binding's all coming off, the pages are missin', the cover's comin' off it.
Robert: Calm down, Ray. It's just a dictionary.
Ray: It's not "just a dictionary," Robert, all right? I won this in the seventh-grade spelling bee.
Robert: Ah. Another one of Raymond's triumphs. Seventh-grade spelling. Gosh, what word put you over the top, Raymond? "Boat"?
Ray: For your information, I had to spell "vacuum." Okay? Two "U's." Or two "C's." I don't know 'cause there's no "V" in here.

Ray: All right, if you're gonna do this, then just go home. Tell your story somewhere else.
Robert: Yeah, let's get Ma to make us some hot chocolate.
Frank: Ray, if you need me, I'll be across the street not listening to my favorite jazz records. You never touched my stuff, Robert. It's too bad Ray wasn't more like you.
[As Frank leaves he closes the door behind him, causing Robert to walk into it]
Ray: Putz. P-U-T-Z. The putz walked into the door. Putz.

Ray: Hey, Mom, what are you doin'?
Marie: Well, your father says the dryer makes his pants too tight.
Ray: I think that's the refrigerator.