Nick: Here's to our worst days.
Pete: And the better ones ahead.

Who actually ever says "mild mannered?"

Zoe

Pete: Eesh. Kitty's got claws.
Nick: She ain't no Kitty.

Zoe: What do you think Nick was like as an employee and not a boss?
Pete: Quieter, less yell-ey.

I don't know if the guilty run, but only the innocent return.

Nick

The desert? C'mon, man, don't be a Vegas cliché.

Nick

Pete: She is way too hot for him. Girls that hot don't go for anyone less than an eight.
Nick: What are you talking about? How about a guy with charm, or humor, or girth?

Email is way too impersonal. You need to text her. But only after you Facebook stalk. You know, see if she commented on the date, or if there is pictures of her with other guys making out.

Zoe

Pete: What are you doing? You called her didn't you?
Nick: Maybe. Maybe, yeah I left her message or two. Two messages.
Pete: Nicky.
Nick: C'mon this is complicated. Don't call her. Call her. Texting, Facebook, intersect.

Nick: What are you saying? That I look like a lonely schlubby loser? Is that what you're saying? Is that the deal?
Pete: No, Nick, not at all. In fact, you're looking good these days. You've been working out. I can tell. A little bigger up top, tighter in the middle, and you've got that bead thing going. Hey and that yoga's paying off too. Your butt, very firm.

Pete: See what you're doing there, Nick? You're giving her all the power. Checking your phone. Making sure you got service. Did she call? Didn't she call?
Nick: Shut up.

Pete: Hey, Nicolito. No sexo, por favor.
Nick: Get out of here.
Pete: Put that phone down!