Priest: I was expecting a parishioner who can't make it, apparently. Would you like to take his place for confession?
Maggie Blake: Me? Oh, I confess, it's been years since I went to confession.
Maggie Blake: Listen, sweetie, I don't know the boy, but you have to be a bit of a dork to prefer math to a beautiful girl. You know what I'm saying?
Belle Blake: By the time I'm done with him, he won't be able to count on his fingers.
Robert Stansfield: You're not a writer, Fred.
Fred Blake: You even said I have a style of my own.
Robert Stansfield: You're just a mean son-of-a-bitch that managed to save his own ass.
Maggie Blake: The human body was not designed to combat saturated fat like that. The butter impregnates the tissues, and then it hardens and settles like silt. It makes your aorta stiffer than a hockey stick. Whereas olive oil - caresses your insides, leaving nothing behind but its scent.
Caputo: That's right. Oil is in the Bible.
Priest: Your confession has haunted me all week. How can you live such a hellish existence?
Maggie Blake: Isn't that the point of confession?
Priest: Your family is the incarnation of evil, and your life is a never-ending pact with the devil! Leave this holy place, for the love of God.
