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.

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