Sylvia Wiss: [pulls her top off] Do these look like the breasts of a forty year old woman? Friday: No ma'am. They're quite impressive... bordering on spectacular. Joe Friday: I don't care what undercover rock you crawled out from, there's a dress code for detectives in Robbery-Homicide. Section 3-605. 10. 20. 22. 24. 26. 50. 70. 80. It specifies: clean shirt, short hair, tie, pressed trousers, sports jacket or suit, and leather shoes, preferably with a high shine on them. Joe Friday: Ma'am, what is the approximate dry weight of the average Madagascan fruit tree bat? Pep Streebeck: You mean you don't know? Joe Friday: Ah, sure, but just like every other foaming, rabid psycho in this city with a foolproof plan, you've forgotten you're facing the single finest fighting force ever assembled. Reverend Jonathan Whirley: The Israelis? [Friday is about to eat a hot dog] Pep Streebeck: Do you know the kinds of things that fall into an industrial sausage breast? NOT excluding rodent hair and bug excrement? [disgusted look] Joe Friday: I hate you, Streebeck. Pep Streebeck: May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live. Pep Streebeck: Are you crazy? Silvia Wiss wanted you. Friday: Now let me tell you something, Streebeck. There are two things that clearly differentiate the human species from animals. One, we use cutlery. Two, we're capable of controlling our sexual urges. Now, you might be an exception, but don't drag me down into your private Hell. Pep Streebeck: You've got a lot of repressed feelings, don't you, Friday? That must be what keeps your hair up. Pep Streebeck: Well... looks like it's just you... and me... and your balls... in this drawer. [Joe Friday arrives] Pep Streebeck: Thank God, it's Friday! Chemical Engineer: Basically, it causes burning in the eyes, nose, and throat. Induces vomiting and if continually inhaled, death! Pep Streebeck: [to Friday] Oh, sort of like your aftershave, huh? Pep Streebeck: You know Friday, we're allowed to go 55. Sometimes even higher. Friday: Did it ever occur to you that by going eight miles an hour slower, we might save some gas and ease the burden on the poor taxpayers that pay our salaries. Pep Streebeck:
A little gas isn't gonna put the city in hock and besides this looks bad, man.
Friday: Look out. Muppets. Narrator: Your attention, please. The story you are about to see is true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent. For example: George Baker is now called "Sylvia Wiss. " [Streebek hands over a broken phone to Friday] Pep Streebeck: It's for you. It's the president. [reading from huge lit up sign] Joe Friday: People... Against... Goodness... And... Normalcy. P, A, G, A, N. P.A.G.A.N.! Pep Streebeck: Nice work, Joe. [after bursting into a suspected drug factory with a tank that ruptures all equipment in its path, sticks out tongue to identify liquid spraying in all directions] Pep Streebeck: I can't quite place it! It tastes like... Joe Friday: Milk. Just like the sign said before you obliterated it. Fresh, wholesome milk. Enid Borden: [Friday knocks on her door, she opens] What the hell do you want? Joe Friday: [as he and Streebek show their badges] Police officers, maam. Enid Borden: 'Bout time you pencil-dicks showed up. Why couldn't you have gotten here before that big bad stupid-looking piece of sewage breath stole my white wedding dress? Joe Friday: 'Sewage-breath' is your little nickname for? Enid Borden: Muzz. Emil Muzz. Pep Streebeck: [Looks at Friday] Not much of an improvement. Joe Friday: Hold it right there, Whirley. Police officer, you're under arrest. Reverend Jonathan Whirley: I beg your pardon, what is this? Some kind of a feeble joke? Joe Friday: Oh, it's a real knee-slapper, friend, if you consider California Penal Code section 4A, 4207A, 597 and 217 Theft, Kidnapping, Cruelty to Animals and Attempted Murder something to laugh about. Reverend Jonathan Whirley: I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. Joe Friday: My partner and I witnessed that little torchlight picnic you threw last night, we're gonna put you where your kind always ends up - in a seven by seven foot grey-green metal cage in the fifteenth floor of some hundred-year-old penitentiary, with damp, stinking walls and a wooden plank for a bed. Sure, this city isn't perfect, we need a smut-free life for all of our citizens; cleaner streets, better schools, and good hockey team. But the big difference between you and me, mister, is you made the promise, and I'm going to keep it. [everyone applauds] Friday: Can you tell me how much a monthly run of your "magazine" is worth? Jerry Caesar: Well, let's just say it's more money than you'll ever see in your life. And I do that every month. Friday: At least my money is clean. Jerry Caesar:
Tell you what you can do, Friday, before you go home and start polishing your pennies. Why don't you go out there and get my magazines back on the stands where they belong?