Ray: Hey, Mom and Dad, I think I know what I'm gonna get you for Christmas.
Frank: Better not be a pet. I hate people who give pets.
Ray: Yeah, yeah, we know, Dad.
Frank: Giving a pet means "You're old, I find you boring. Talk to a bird."

Frank: What did you do? Try to soften her up with a big present so you could go play golf?
Ray: For your information, Dad, it's a little more complicated than that.
Frank: You're an idiot. Give me that chocolate. Sit down. Let me tell you something about women. You think you've got to butter them up to get what you want. That is a poor man's game. "Oh, sweetums, here's some flowers. Can I go to the lodge?" Not for me. Not for me! I don't do that nice crap.
Robert: So how do you get what you want?
Frank: I've learned to do without.

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...