Chuck: For the meantime, Olive is depending on you. She said two years ago she could taste that first-prize blue ribbon, and then that taste was replaced with the bitter tang of defeat.
Ned: Bitter tang, bitter Olive. It’s a story.
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Olive: Sweet Lord in Heaven, how I hate the Buffalo.
Leo Burns: When you say "buffalo," do you mean the noble breed of bison lost forever to settlers' greed or the upstate New York hamlet still thirsting for Super Bowl glory?
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Marianne: And you remember, now--losing doesn’t make you a loser. Oh wait--it does.
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Charles Charles: I hate to look in the gift horse’s mouth, but I’m not gonna start craving human flesh, am I?
Chuck: No. Although everything does taste better.
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Chuck: I need your help.
Emerson Friend help or pay help? (Chuck hangs her head) See that? That’s the kind of body language you never hear with pay help.
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Chuck: You're not mad at me?
Emerson: Hell yeah I'm mad! I'm steamed, furious, red-hot and don't think I ain't gonna yell at you later! But for now let's just put our heads together and try to figure out what to do.
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Olive: I'm going to win that blue ribbon, wrap it around her neck, and strangle her with it.
Ned: Olive. You're baking with hate.
Olive: Ah. Rich, buttery, high-in-carbohydrate hate. You know what no one tells you about cooking with the dark side? The food is really good.
Ned: Revenge is a dish best served cold. We're baking pie--warm, delicious, happy-making pie.
Olive: Okay, help cook or get out of the kitchen, short-pants.
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Ned: He's not just dead. He's extra-crispy
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Colonel Likkin: I hate to go, but at least I'm going delicious.
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(Chuck kisses him on the cheek)
Emerson: Ah. Don't be pecking me, woman. That's the peck of cahoots, which we are definitely not in.
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Olive: I know it’s a tragedy, obviously, but you know what they say, when God closes a door, he opens an oven.
Ned: They don’t say that, and if they do they don’t have much compassion for a dead colonel.
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Olive: You've never solved a murder mystery alone before.
Ned: I'm not alone.
Olive: Me? Oh. I just got all tingly. And not just in the nether regions.
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Olive: Okay, how do we go about this… this whole P.I. thing? Do we just jam the gun in the suspect’s mouth and say, “Sing, canary, or I’m gonna decorate this wallpaper with your guts”?
Ned: Neither. Technically, I don’t believe you can blow someone’s guts out their mouth.
Olive: Wuss.
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Chuck: Why would he want us dead?
Narrator: As is traditional, the “why “ in this case was met with an equal and opposite “because.”
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Olive: Hey! You know what I love about Vivian? Her imagination. She thought you and I were a couple now. It's crazy. It's like imagining us as hobbits. Or on jet packs. Or hobbits on jet packs.
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Ned: We’re not the saboteurs.
Waffle Nazi: Oh, ja, ja. Mein waffle cord leaped into your arms like a puppy wanting love and then cut itself in two.
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Waffle Nazi: I do not speak a word of German. I speak English with a German accent. Pageantry!
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Chuck: Dwight might not have been the nicest man, but everybody deserves a burial with dignity.
Emerson: Fine, I got buttloads of dignity to sprinkle on the ground. Come on. Get holy.
Chuck: Thank you.
Emerson: Here lies Dwight. Here lies his gun. He was bad. Now he’s done. Let’s go.
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Emerson: What’s with the shotgun?
Lily: Military salute.
Emerson: For Dwight Dixon?
Lily: For Charles. But if I happen to miss and blow Dwight’s head off, purely by accident, well, that’s something my lawyers can pretty much sort out later.
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The Widow Likkin: The Colonel would be so proud. Now that I have the recipe, that nice doughnut man and I are gonna go into business together. "Finger Likkin Doughnut Holes."
Ned: Sounds delicious… and filthy.
Olive: America's favorite. You'll make a fortune.
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UK (
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