Del: You could kill a man like that, hitting him in the stomach. That's how Houdini died you know.
Del: You play with your balls a lot.
Neal: I do not play with my balls.
Del: Larry Bird doesn't do as much ball-handling in one night as you do in an hour.
Neal: Are you trying to start a fight?
Del: No. I'm simply stating a fact. That's all. You fidget with your nuts a lot.
Neal: You know what'd make me happy?
Del: Another couple of balls, and an extra set of fingers?
Neal: Eh, look, I don't want to be rude, but I'm not much of a conversationalist, and I really want to finish this article, a friend of mine wrote it, so.
Del: Don't let me stand in your way, please don't let me stand in your way. The last thing I want to be remembered as is an annoying blabbermouth... You know, nothing grinds my gears worse than some chowderhead that doesn't know when to keep his big trap shut... If you catch me running off with my mouth, just give me a poke on the chubbs.
State Trooper: What the hell are you driving here?
Del: We had a small fire last night, but we caught it in the nick of time.
State Trooper: Do you have any idea how fast you were going?
Del: Funny enough, I was just talking to my friend about that. Our speedometer has melted and as a result it's very hard to see with any degree of accuracy exactly how fast we were going.
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