Mr. Glascott: Howdy, neighbor.
Beverly: What time is it?
Mr. Glascott: It is 6:31 in the glorious morning. One minute after neighborhoods across the globe officially open for biz.
Beverly: It's barely light outside.
Mr. Glascott: You know, I used to live overlooking a limestone quarry. That giant, watery pit held so many mysteries. And, for some reason, a Safeway shopping cart.
Beverly: The street lights are still on.
Mr. Glascott: I made strudel. Be careful cutting it. My first rent check is baked inside.
Beverly: That's fun, I guess.
Mr. Glascott: Oh, it was an accident. You know what? Let's plate it before the caramel smudges the ink.

Erica: Do you really have to lay there like that, with your butt hovering in the air?
Barry: Well, ever since you overinflated my medical pillow, my options for comfort are limited.
Erica: [sighs] I never thought I would miss looking at your face.
Barry: And there's a new issue. The pain is now an itch. [groans] An itch like no other.
Erica: You heard the doctor. Scratching will prolong the healing, and nobody wants that.
Barry: Just give me a slotted spoon? A balloon whisk? A seafood fork? A grapefruit spoon? A melon baller? One of those little things you hold corn with? Anything!
Erica: Ew! You're a little too familiar with the scratching power of our silverware.

Murray: With a grill like this, I can't have my lady cooking just for me. She'll cook for the whole block.
Beverly: It's the life I've always dreamed of! [grunts] We'll host every weekend and invite all our friends, but we'll always exclude one couple, hmm? Everyone will be in a permanent state of social anxiety. Yay!