Cece: [high voice] But what if I talk like a baby?
Schmidt: You're still hot. That's all we're gonna talk about.
Cece: A tiny little baby!

Edgar: Burglar?! He's not a burglar. He's Julius Pepperwood from Chicago. Let's get him in the house.
Nick: [mumbling] The D.A.'s gonna have my badge for this.
Jess: No! Get off of him! You kill him, you kill me, too!
Old Woman: Get away from my Edgar! [sprays mace]
Jess: My eyes! Oh! My giant eyes!

Nick: Oh, Cece. Are you two kids back together?
Schmidt: She wishes.
Cece: No, plumbing's out ... severe clogging.
Nick: I'm sorry I asked.
Schmidt: This is what happens. Four models with protein deficiencies, sharing a shower. They shed like a... like a four-dollar Christmas sweater.

Cece: You said you had a breakthrough.
Jess: So I have this student whose name is Edgar and he was not getting it. And then today he turned in this amazing story. Nick, actually, you should read this.
Nick: Writers don't read ... we write.
Jess: Jessica Day calls it "A must read."
Nick: Look at that font. What is this amateur hour? At least use Palatino.

Nick: This man is psychotic.
Jess: It's fiction. There's no such thing as a gimp costume.
Nick: No, gimp costume's a real thing.
Schmidt: That's a real thing. You've seen me in one before.

Nick: I just don't think you should be in a room with this creep, twice a week. It is not safe.
Jess: Are you worried about me, Miller?
Nick: Yeah, I'm a little worried about you. And if you won't do anything about it, then I'm taking into my own hands. I'm doing a little investigation.
Jess: Investigating? Please. You're just gonna Google his name.
Nick: I am way beyond that.
Schmidt: You're typing his name into Google. We can all see the screen.
Winston: See the screen, dude.
Nick: This is a private investigation!

Winston: I wanted to talk to you about the... regrettable contact between Cece's... her-her down there and my, uh... my parts.
Schmidt: You practically shish-kebabbed her.
Winston: Is this something I should apologize for?
Schmidt: Just let it go, man. You pogo'd her.
Winston: I'm sorry, what did you say, "pogo"?
Schmidt: I didn't, um...
Winston: I heard "Pogo". What is that?
Schmidt: Look, Winston, fine. It's what we call what you did this morning, okay? It's a short... it's a shorthand.
Winston: Why do you have a shorthand, Schmidt, because it happens so often?
Schmidt: You pogo'd me once. You pogo'd Jess twice.
Winston: Hey, it's not sexual.
Schmidt: Nick's never been pogo'd directly. You did get his pizza one time... which, by the way, is a whole nother debate ... how did you not feel that?
Winston: Let me get this straight ... you guys sit around and talk about this?
Schmidt: Your penis actually changed the channel, uh, when we were watching the Bears game once.

Schmidt: Hey, Winston, I'm glad you're home. I know what my pogo is. It's that I dance kind of like a sea snake. [dances]
Winston: Yeah, not even close, Schmidt.
Schmidt: What are you talk... I know this it, man.
[later:]
Schmidt: Is it that I barge into people's showers? [Nick throws a bar of soap at Winston]
[later:]
Schmidt: It's my caterpillar eyebrows ... well, look. [Winston screams] They're gone.

Schmidt: It's my mole, isn't it? Well, consider it gone. Game, set, pogo.
Winston: Chill out, man, it's not your mole.
Schmidt: Just tell me, this is the worst.
Winston: This is not the worst, Schmidt ... the worst is actually knowing. Knowing that your friends sit around every single night talking about your pogo.

Jess: What is wrong with you, Winston?
Winston: What is wrong with me? Besides my pogo.
Schmidt: I told him. It just kind of popped out. You understand what that's like, right, Winston?
Winston: Okay, you know what? Don't act like we don't talk about you two behind your backs. Because we do. You both have pogos, my friends.
Nick: Okay, let's take a deep breath and ask ourselves if this conversation is worth ruining our friendships over.
Jess: Tell me my pogo.
Cece: I need to know my pogo. You guys need to tell me. I can take it. Lay it on me!
Jess: You know, it's kind of a loft thing. Is it my pies? Are they too tart?
Schmidt: Pies can't be a pogo, okay? My koala claws, now that's a pogo!
Winston: At least you can hide your pogo in a shoe.
Schmidt: They make shoes for your penis ... they're called pants!