Will: There you are, Uncle Phil, 25 years younger, thousands of pounds thinner... cruising the strip at Princeton. Wind blowing through your big old fro. Honeys checking you out. They're saying: "Mmm. There go Philip Banks, he is a bad mamma jamma." They waving at you, Uncle Phil. Oh, go ahead, go ahead, wave back. It's okay, wave back. Go ahead.
Philip: Right on, sisters.
Carlton: Dad, did I mention that the all-new Accountant gets 75 miles to the gallon?
Philip: To hell with the Accountant, I want this.
Pete Fletcher: Excellent choice, Mr. Banks. Come on in the office, we'll crunch some numbers.
Philip: All right.
Carlton: Dad, Will just bamboozled you.
Philip: And that's the story we'll tell your mother. Thank you, Will.