Sam and Max: Chariots of the Dogs

Sam:
What's the word on the street on Bosco's disappearance?

Flint Paper:
I've been making chin music with every pigeon in this burgh, but nobody's singing. Trail's dried up like a hobo's inner thigh.

Max:
How quickly the lingo goes from "colorful" to "gut-churning."

Sam:
Don't worry, Flint. We've got the skills to find whoever kidnapped Bosco.

Max:
I am still President, after all.

Flint Paper:
That may be. But are you a bad enough President to rescue the dude?

Sam:
Thanks for the chat, Stinky.

Grandpa Stinky:
Ah, just go away and die!

Max:
But most of all, thanks for just being you.

Sam:
[examining a button on the mariachis' spaceship] It says "suck".

Max:
By the looks of this place, somebody's been pushing the *hell* out of it!

Superball:
I can answer any of your questions. Please don't touch anything. I'm Agent Superball.

Max:
Superball?

Superball:
It's a code name, sir. I'm a bouncer. Secret Service humor.

Sam:
In the future, we know a guy who looks just like you, with the same name!

Superball:
I've never seen you before. And there couldn't be another "Agent Superball", sir. The code names are unique.

Max:
Oh, "Superball". I get it!

Sam:
What's a gooey molasses tar cake?

Grandpa Stinky:
It's based on my ancient family recipe. But my proud, knuckle-dragging forefathers never thought to use my secret ingredient!

Max:
The blood of innocents!

Sam:
Nutmeg!

Grandpa Stinky:
You're both wrong! And you're both stupid!

Sam:
Hope you're not still holding a grudge about that tar cake business.

Grandpa Stinky:
I hold on to grudges like a man pushed overboard holds onto a ship's rail, clinging to it with bleeding fingers as the one thing saving him from a fatal plunge into the briny abyss.

Max:
[sniffs] We missed you, Stinky.

[Bosco's been turned into a cow]

Bosco:
Help me get back to normal, guys!

Max:
"Normal"? [scoffs] We'll get you back the way you were before, but, uh, we're not promising more than that.