Not that I don't like the snow, just prefer it in its proper place: like on mountain tops, and poetry, and songs by Bing Crosby.

Ooh! Wiggle my ears and tickle my toes, methinks I see a baby's nose!

H-how did you know? –Well, like any decent, self-respecting housekeeper, I listened in on the other phone.

When are you going to learn that girls like that are a dime-a-dozen? –Please don't quote me the price when I haven't got the time.

I'm not spending Thanksgiving in Wichita. I've got a family waiting for me.

I'm Marti Page, and I'm thankful that my dad's coming home for Thanksgiving.

How may I help you? –You can start by wiping that fucking dumb-ass smile off your rosy fucking cheeks. And you can give me a fucking automobile. A fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick. Four fucking wheels and a seat! –I really don't care for the way you're speaking to me. –And I really don't care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking car that isn't fucking there. And I really didn't care to fucking walk down a fucking highway and across a fucking runway to get back here to have you smile in my fucking face. I want a fucking car right fucking now. –May I see your rental agreement? –I threw it away. –Tsk. Oh boy. –'Oh boy,' what? –You're fucked.

I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure.

A clear statement of your symptoms will help us provide the medical practitioner appropriate to your individual needs. –I'm trying to send a distress signal! Stop talking about doctors! –I'm a doctor... But probably not the one you're expecting.