No, I’m sorry, it was the Moops.
It’s not you, it’s me.
This is George Costanza, I’m calling for my test results. Negative? Oh, my God. WHY! WHY! WHY? What? What? Negative is good? Oh, yes of course! How stupid of me. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Sic Semper Tyrannis!
I usually last about ten minutes on the Stairmaster. Unless, of course, there’s someone stretching in front of me in a leotard, then I can go an hour. That’s why they call it the Stairmaster. You get up there and you stare.
Well, I got gonorrhea.
Y’know I remember when I was a kid growing up, kids would make fun of my name like you wouldn’t believe - ‘Jerry Jerry Dingleberry’, ‘Seinsmelled’…
I have no power. Why should she have the upper hand? Once in my life I would like the upper hand. I have no hand. No hand at all. She has the hand. I have no hand!
A George divided against himself cannot stand!
What could possess anyone to throw a party? I mean, to have a bunch of strangers treat your house like a hotel room.
Eight hours of jingle-belling and ho-ho-hoing. Boy, I am ho’d out.
And you call THAT the “tractor story”?
And now the search for the right psychiatrist begins.
Allow me; what are you, and idiot?
Serenity now, insanity later.
Well, the yogurt verdict is in… FAT!
Thanks for ruining my daddy’s business, you fat f–k.
I’m not sure, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I see… a nipple.
Hey, Nips!
If you think I’m looking for someone to just sit at a desk, pushing papers around, you can forget it. I get enough headaches just trying to manufacture the stuff.