Debra: That's why I want to go to counseling. I don't think it's that you're just lazy. I think there's a deeper reason behind this, and if we could just figure it out, you and I could be happier.
Ray: Come on, you know me. There's not much deepness. I just... I like to be taken care of.
Debra: You gotta understand, Ray, that that's not a wife. That's a mother.
Ray: Well, maybe that's what I want!
Frank: Holy crap!

Robert: What do you want me to say? I need to do the wedding invitations. Amy wants me to do it, so I'm doing it. Come on, help me.
Ray: All right. Here's what you do: You- You write a version of the invitation, but you do a horrible job. Okay? She'll see it, do it herself, and never ask you to do anything else with this wedding. You're welcome.
Robert: But it's terrible, Raymond. I'm not gonna intentionally screw it up just to get out of the work.
Frank: Hey, dummy, listen to your stupid brother.
Ray: Look, look. When we got engaged, Debra put me in charge of the music. Okay. So I found a DJ. She wanted a band. So I found a band. She didn't like the band, so I found another band. Nope! The truth is, she wanted to do it, but she just got it in her head that I should be part of this whole wedding experience. So you know what I did? I sent over this guy who sang and played the accordion. He had a keyboard with violins and trumpets and drum noises. His name was "Zippers, the One-Man Wedding Band." Next thing you know, she tells me, "Never mind, she'll take care of the music." I sat down, turned on the TV and never looked back.
Frank: That's a beautiful story.

Ray: You know, you're not supposed to ask people who they vote for. That's why we folded our votes and put it in the shoebox with tape around it, and they locked it up in the school cafe-gym-a-torium as our forefathers did.