Michael: Are you talking about the fact that my father is in jail? Because I don't like to be compared to my father, either.
George Michael: I don't mind being compared to my father.
Michael: Save it for the talk room, son.

Michael: Murdered, huh? Who died?
Gob: My career.
Michael: I'm going home now.

Michael: I met a publicist today. I'm going to hire her. We need somebody to make us look good.
Lucille: And I say it's a waste of money. We're-we're plenty sympathetic as we are. Is this your onion?
Lupe: Yes.
Lucille: What's in the foil?
Lupe: Nothing. It's a ball of foil for my son.
Lucille: Have a great day, sweetie.

Lindsay: (sobbing) How can you treat me this way?!
Lucille: Oh, please! Everything I've said about you can be covered with makeup and a lie about a thyroid problem. Good grief almighty! You think I'm enjoying my slide into poverty?

(to Jessie) Instead of us getting jobs, why don't you do your job and tell everyone we've got jobs?

Lindsay

Waitress: Welcome to Klimpy's. Anywhere you like.
Lucille: This does not bode well.

Jessie: I think it's best if you got a job.
Lindsay: Oh, come on! I'm a parent, I care about my daughter every bit as much as Michael cares about his son.
Maeby: What grade am I in?
Lindsay: What kind of job?

Jessie: Your father's religious now? We'll play that up. It's very sympathetic.
Lucille: Yeah. Who doesn't love the Jews?

Hostess: Mrs. Bluth, there's absolutely no room.
Lindsay: Come on. I've suddenly lost my appetite.
Lucille: Oh, who's going to believe that?

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