A man becomes increasingly jealous of his friend's newfound success.

J-Man: Don't hassle me about crumbs man, because I am on the edge of the edge.
Bosco: And when you see the J-Man, you tell him, "Bosco says we're even." And up your ass with Mobil Gas.
[as they approach the "lake" by the "cabin"]
Debbie Dingman: Under no circumstances is that a lake.
Tim Dingman: Maybe there's a tide?
Nick Vanderpark: What's that?
[as he looks down and points at Tim's pants, right by his crotch]
Tim Dingman: What?
Nick Vanderpark: That.
Tim Dingman: Oh... maple syrup.
[Nick reaches over and wipes up some maple syrup from Tim's pants with his index finger and then tastes it]
Nick Vanderpark: Mmm. Man! Can you believe that comes from a tree?
Tim Dingman: Don't taste my pants.
Nick Vanderpark: I can't taste your pants?
Tim Dingman: Ever.
Nick Vanderpark: Ever?
Tim Dingman: No.
Nick Vanderpark: Then don't spill maple syrup on them.
Tim Dingman: Just because it's there doesn't mean you have to taste it.
Nick Vanderpark: Well, I like maple syrup.
Tim Dingman: Well, not from my pants.
Nick Vanderpark: [before Tim finishes] I love it.
Tim Dingman: [outraged] Shit doesn't just disappear!
Bosco: Tim?
Tim Dingman: Yeah.
Bosco: Tim?
Tim Dingman: Yeah.
Bosco: You're Tim?
Tim Dingman: Yeah I'm Tim.
Nick Vanderpark: C'est la vie, as the Romans say.
Debbie Dingman: [sighs while reading a magazine]
Tim Dingman: What?
Debbie Dingman: Nothing.
[momentary pause]
Debbie Dingman: Liposuction.
Tim Dingman: You mean... Where they suck the fat out?
Debbie Dingman: Mmm Hmm. There's a thing about it in here.
Tim Dingman: You're fine. You don't need to get fat sucked out.
Debbie Dingman: I don't know... If we had a little extra money...
Tim Dingman: We don't have extra money...
Debbie Dingman: We have a little.
Tim Dingman: [more sternly/louder] Not to get fat sucked out!
Dr. Fernandez: [With hispanic accent] It becomes a lethal poison!
Tim Dingman: A little person...?
J-Man: If a pretzel is a quality pretzel, it doesn't need salt. It's just a fact.
Mr. Parmenter: Now, your performance chart's pretty good until here. And then your focus nosedives into the red. You see? Now, is there anything that happened around *here*... you might like to talk about?
Tim Dingman: Um, no.
Mr. Parmenter: You sure?
Tim Dingman: Yeah. No.
Mr. Parmenter: Any reason?
Tim Dingman: Reason? No, I can't think of...
Mr. Parmenter: Any reason at all?
Tim Dingman: No. No reason. No. I mean, nothing I can think of. I mean... you know, other than every day, I get into my little shit-box car and there he is... with the wind in his hair... on his great big shiny horse. And I drive off to do what? To make sandpaper. To make paper with sand on it. I'd love to see you try to turn your weasley little mouth into a fake smile, day after day after day while you have to wave toodly-fucking-do to your best friend who's rearing up on a big white horse like he's the Lone Ranger! Then I'd like to take a peek at your performance chart, you beady-eyed little shrimp-boat bastard!
[voice cracks]
Tim Dingman: Is that a reason? I mean, is that a reason?
Michael Dingman: Boy that flan was good. I wish we had flan.
Tim Dingman: [grimaces, gets up from the bed, pats Michael's arm and whispers to acknowledge Michael] OK.
Michael Dingman: Dad?
Tim Dingman: Yeah?
Michael Dingman: How come we're getting the little itty-bitty pool?
Tim Dingman: Mikey, It's not a little itty-bitty. The square one is the little itty-bitty. We're getting the bean shaped model. Right?
Michael Dingman: A little itty-bitty bean.
Tim Dingman: It's not a little itty-bitty bean. It's an averaged sized bean, Mikey. And I've got news for you, my friend. There are kids in parts of the world who would walk 50 miles through quicksand just so they could stick a toe in your swimming pool. And I've got news for you about beans too, Mister. There are kids who would eat beans because they've had nothing to eat their whole life but, but, but, but leaves and bark and roots. And I guarantee you none of them has ever heard of your big show off flan, or flan, or whatever you want to call it, that you have to have every night of the week! OK?
Nick Vanderpark: Spray some on my butt cause I just shit my pants!
Michael Dingman: [as Tim has put him to bed] Daddy, why can't we have flan?
J-Man: Good for you. Good for you! Good for *you*!
Nick Vanderpark: How do I know where the shit goes?

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