Andrew: Only a drunken, infantile idiot shoots himself over love, not an internist.
Andrew: I'm not a poet. I don't die for love. I work on Wall Street.
Andrew: Sex alleviates tension and love causes it.
Allan: I attacked her. I'm a vicious jungle beast! She's panicking. By the time she gets home she'll be hysterical. What am I going to tell Dick? She'll probably go right to Police headquarters. Oh, what did I do? I'm not Bogart. I never will be Bogart. I'm a disgrace to my sex. I should get a job in a Arabian palace as a eunuch.
Allan: I'll get broads up here like you wouldn't believe: swingers, freaks, nymphomaniacs, dental hygienists.
Allan: I gave her a home and affection and security. This was a little girl I found waiting tables at The Hip Bagel. I used to go in there every night and over tip her. A dollar fifty on a thirty-five cent check.
Allan: I wonder if she actually had an orgasm in the two years we were married, or did she fake it that night?
Allan: If you want me, I'll be home, on the floor, having an anxiety attack.
Allan: I'm so excited, I think I'll brush all my teeth today.
