Norm: My ideal weight if I were eleven feet tall.
Norm: A transfusion with a head on it.
Norm: Terrorists, Sam. They’ve taken over my stomach and they’re demanding beer.
Any cheap, tawdry thing that will get me a beer.
Norm: Well that’s tough to say, Coach. Let’s see I’m overweight, unemployed, separated, depressed, starting to drink too much. My problem is I’ve never been happier.
Norm: Like I just ran over its dog.
Daddy wuvs you.”
Norm: Like a baby treats a diaper.
Norm: I’d like to see something in a size 54 sudzy.
Norm: A thirsty guy walks into a bar. You finish it.
Norm: Coach: I don’t know. I’ll have one next week… what the heck, I’m young.
Norm: The question is, “What’s going in Mr. Peterson?” A beer please, Woody.