Malory: Especially Sterling. If he found out i might have breast cancer, he'd be devastated. This information cannot leave this... Pam what the hell?
Pam: What? Nothing.
Malory: You're texting about my...
Pam: I'm not I swear, this is about...
Cheryl: Breast caner! Oh, you poor thing.
Malory: What is wrong with you?
Pam: I can't help it. It's like a disease.
Pam: Do you not know what disease means? Oh sorry I forgot you might have...
Cyril: Breast cancer!
Malory: I had a mammogram on Friday and they found something.
Pam: So is that why you're being such a bitch?
Cheryl: You're not my supervisor!
Pam: Shut up! We're going to go to prison.
Cheryl: No, we're not. Say the right stuff and they just send you to a mental hospital for ten months.
Gilette: I just this second realize why you do macrame instead of knitting.
Cheryl: Yeah, no sharp weapons on the ward. They were really strict about that.
Cheryl: Deaf people are gross.
Pam: Not as gross as the hook hand ones.
Cheryl: Eh? I dunno.
Rona: Where's my journal?
Pam: I maybe kind of sort of took it?
Gillette: Why would you do that?
Cheryl: Did you think it was meat?
Lana: This isn't the Sheriff's department where you get wear a windbreak and go on a ride-along. This is highly classified cover ops.
Rona: Yes! Covert ops! This is exactly the kind of spy lingo I want to soak up.
Pam: What part of highly classified do you not understand?
Rona: All of it!
Pam: It could take hours for this to bypass the electronic lock.
Archer: Then I should definitely get my turtleneck.
Pam: How's the elevator supposed to work with a gillion pounds of computers on it?!
Cheryl: Who am I, Elisha Otis?
Cyril: Maybe I could kill that pesky old worm?
Pam: How you gonna do that? Disappoint it to death?
Pam: The identity of every single ISIS field agent is on there!
Archer: So what?
Malory: Because most secret agents don't tell every harlot from here to Hanoi that they ARE secret agents.
Archer: Then why be one?
Archer: Pam, wait up! Get me drunk enough and i might have sex with you
Archer: No. It's a catch-22. The amount of alcohol I would need would literally kill me. But I do want to see how many pool balls you can stick in your mouth.
Pam: My record's three.
Pam: Can you explain compounding interest to Cheryl?
Cyril: Maybe if we had an infinite amount of time and she was some one else