— I trusted you.
— That wasn't very smart, was it?
— And you were supposed to marry him, last weekend? Speaking of which, I gave you a very hied cappuccino maker, and seeing is there aren't going to be any nuptials...
— Yeah, yeah. You'll get it back.
— Great.
<...>
— Hey, wait a minute. We've only got one cappuccino maker and it was from my brother Barry.
— Worth the shot.
One tiny mistake can't ruin something that good.
As for me, I always assumed growing up happened dogmatically as you got older but it's really something you have to choose to do.
— Well, Bob, your employees really stood by you. They pointed out to the board that... Well, you run a tight ship, and actually we'd like you to stay on.
— Girls, thank you for saving my job. The one thing I wanted was to end things on my own terms, and since you're letting me, you can shove it up your ass, Rodney. I'm out of here.
— You know, you didn't have to save me from Mrs. Cropper's husband. I could have handled him.
— How? By ramming your face into his fist over and over again?
— You can make jokes, but I did that to Paul Edwards in college, and who won that fight? He broke two knucles, but I only fractured one skull. Scoreboard, Turk. Scoreboard.
«Statistics show» who... who cares, what statistic's showing? Look at medicine. 80% of people, with pancreatic cancer, die within 5 years, 95% of appendectomies, occur with zero complications. But... we both know pancreatic cancer patient that lived, and appendix patients that unfortunately... passed. Statistics mean nothing to the individual. You're either gonna be a good parent to that kid, or you're not. I mean, hell, your parents were divorcing, and somehow you managed to become a relatively successful doctor.