Jack Butler: Listen, Ace, we need to talk here about your woobie. Your woobie’s lookin’ bad, bud. Now wait a minute. Listen to me, I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they’re great… and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn’t enough. You’re out on the street trying to score an electric blanket, or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you’re strung out on bedspreads Ken. That’s serious.
Samantha/Jake: [both in unison] Hi.
Samantha: Hi. What are you doing here?
Jake: I heard you were here.
Samantha: You came here for me?
Jake: Is that okay?
Samantha: Yeah, it’s okay.
Jake: Do you have to go to reception now?
Samantha: I’m supposed to.
Jake: Can I call you later?
Samantha: Sure. . .I mean no.
Jake: No, I can’t call you later?
Samantha: Yeah. . .No, I mean, I’m not going to the reception.
Jake: Oh. Great.
Buck Russell: I don’t think I want to know a six-year-old who isn’t a dreamer, or a sillyheart. And I sure don’t want to know one who takes their student career seriously. I don’t have a college degree. I don’t even have a job. But I know a good kid when I see one. Because they’re ALL good kids, until dried-out, brain-dead skags like you drag them down and convince them they’re no good. You so much as scowl at my niece, or any other kid in this school, and I hear about it, and I’m coming looking for you! Take this quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off your face! Good day to you, madam.
Clark Griswold: Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
Blane: Let’s go upstairs, huh? Come on.
Andie: I didn’t come here to get you off. That was not my idea.
Blane: That’s not what I meant. I haven’t even tried to kiss you, have I? Look, it’s quieter up there, OK? Come on. These hands will remain in these pockets, I swear to God. Look at me here. Come on. I’m utterly defenceless. And utterly foolish. Come on.