Missy: So is every game that eventful?
Torrance Shipman: No, thank God. We have a real situation on our hands. I mean, we were humiliated on our own turf.
Missy: We might have to have a rumble.
Torrance Shipman: This is a serious problem.
Missy: Oh, so is your breath.
Les: You know, everyone's saying that your ambition broke Carver's leg.
Torrance Shipman: When really it was the angle in which she slammed into the ground.
Les: Kasey did a massive e-mail last night, misspelled "leg."
Torrance Shipman: Shut up.
Les: Two G's.
Darcy: The words "big" and "britches" come to mind.
Whitney: She's crazy. She'll kill us all.
Courtney: Some of us haven't spent the whole summer working out. Right, Carver?
Courtney: Tell me we're not actually continuing the masquerade and having try-outs. Let's cut the crap and pick somebody now! Whitney's little sister Jamie is really teeny. She'll be easy to toss, and she doesn't give lip.
Jan: Just tongue.
Whitney: Kiss my ass, Jan.
Jan: I'd love to.
Torrance Shipman: Well, I hope you're not too busy to hear this. Kiss my ass, Aaron. It's over.
Sparky: I am a choreographer. That's what I do. You are cheerleaders. Cheerleaders are dancers who have gone retarded. What you do is a tiny, pathetic subset of dancing. I will attempt to turn your robotic routines into poetry, written with the human body. Follow me, or perish, sweater monkeys.
Courtney: Where the hell are my spanky pants?
Jan: You know, all the cheerleaders in the world wouldn't help our football team.
Les: It's just wrong. Cheering for them is just plain mean.
Missy: See, I'm a hardcore gymnast. No way jumping up and down yelling "Go Team Go!" is gonna satisfy me.
Torrance Shipman: We're gymnasts too, except no beams, no bars, no vault.
