Shirley:

Who the hell are you?

Alan:
It’s not who, so much as what. This is a men’s room.
What’s your name, fella?

Shirley:
I’m Shirley Schmidt. Pardon the intrusion, but one of our
assistants
is suing us under Title 9—claiming, among other things, the
men have better fixtures.

Alan:
So, you’re Shirley Schmidt of Crane, Poole and…

Shirley:
Schmidt.

Alan Shore:
Alan Shore. It’s a pleasure.

Shirley:
Surely, you intend to wash that first.

Alan:
I keep an extremely clean penis.

Shirley:
I know all about you.

Alan:
And I, you. There’s much written in stall number
2. I pictured you younger. Much.

Shirley:
A smart attorney recognizes who he can or cannot
rattle.

Alan:
He also knows a good rattle when he sees one.

Shirley:
Since I’m your boss, I can’t return your sexual banter,
but I will say for the record that if I were
looking for a rattle, he would be taller, he would
be better-looking, he would be more evolved than a
junior in high school.

Alan:
I prefer the juniors in high school.

Shirley:
He would be something other than a self-loathing
narcissist with a dwarf fetish, and, yes,
judging from what I got a glimpse of in the mirror
when I first entered the room, he would be bigger.
Much.

Alan:
My, my, my.