Tim: Marty, stick around.
Marty: Why? You want to rip into me some more?
Tim: Look, I'm sorry I did that at the bar, OK?
Marty: No, Tim, you made it real clear how you feel.
Tim: Well, I've had time to think about it. I think we should talk, all right? Stick around, have something to drink? What do you want?
Marty: Anything but root beer.
Tim: I guess we're past me tying you up to Mrs. Campbell's tree and pouring root beer on your head, huh? It's like the Roman guy Apricot said: "if you roam around with architects, buy rocks, put 'em in the sand, and you'll understand."
Marty: Let me think about that.