Pep Streebeck: May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.
Pep Streebeck: You've got a lot of repressed feelings, don't you, Friday? Must be what keeps your hair up.
Pep Streebeck: Well, Muzz, I guess it's just you, and... and me... and your balls... and this drawer.
[Joe Friday arrives.] Pep Streebeck: Thank God, it's Friday!
Topless woman: Are these the breasts of a forty year old? Friday: No ma'am. They're very 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 3-605.10.20.22.18.104.22.168.80. 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 have any idea what falls into an industrial sausage press, including rodent hairs and bug excrement? Joe Friday: I hate you, Streebeck.