Agnes White: I am the super mother bug!

Agnes White: I guess I'd rather talk with you about bugs than nothing with nobody.

Agnes White: [Dr. Sweet, unknowingly sitting on some gas canisters, proceeds to light up Agnes' crack pipe] I'd be careful.

Dr. Sweet: I'm okay.

Agnes White: Oh, yeah. You're also sitting on twenty gallons of high test.

Agnes White: You don't sound like you're from Oklahoma.

Peter Evans: I'm from Beaver.

Agnes White: Well, we're all from beaver, ain't we?

Jerry Goss: You look good, baby. Mm. Mustache tickles a little bit.

R.C.: That's okay.

Jerry Goss: Not mine, yours.

Dr. Sweet: Bugs are a fairly common delusion among paranoids... Bugs, spiders, snakes... spiders. You haven't had any snakes, have you?

Agnes White: You're the first.

Dr. Sweet: Have you at least entertained the idea the bugs are a delusion?

Agnes White: How do I know *you're* not a delusion?

Dr. Sweet: Touché.

Dr. Sweet: [looking around Agnes' room, covered in tinfoil, full of bug zappers and other insect repellant products] Bug problem?

Agnes White: You should know.

Dr. Sweet: Should I? What are they?

Agnes White: Aphids.

Dr. Sweet: Aphids.

Agnes White: Look around, asshole!... They're in right now. They like to go in sometimes.

Dr. Sweet: And the tinfoil?

Agnes White: Scrambles the signal.

Dr. Sweet: You're receiving a signal?

Agnes White: Transmitting.

Dr. Sweet: You're transmitting a signal...

Agnes White: Not me. The bugs.

Dr. Sweet: The bugs have a transmitter?

Agnes White: The bugs *are* the transmitter.

Dr. Sweet: And the tinfoil scrambles the signal.

Agnes White: It helps.

Dr. Sweet: I'm sure it does.

Peter Evans: I am the drone.

Agnes White: I am the mother queen.

Peter Evans: I'm not an ax murderer.

Peter Evans: I... pick up on things.