Michael: The lost and found has gone missing. It itself is lost.
Michael: The way this place used to work was: make friends first, make sales second, make love third. In no particular order.
Michael: The sales department smashed my sandwich?
Darryl: Yes. All of them, together. It's a conspiracy.
Phyllis: Hand 'em over, numb nuts.
Michael: Just imagine that instead of going to jail for murdering someone, you got an ice cream cone. If that were the case, then in the summertime, everyone would go around killing people for the pleasure of an ice cream cone.
Michael: A lesser manager would have screwed this day up royally.
Toby: If we don't patronize the only Syrian restaurant in town, there'll be nothing left but pan pizzas and, you know, make-your-own salads.
Dwight: I hitched my wagon to a horse with no legs.
Phyllis: Treats, Stanley. They've accepted our simple offer of treats only, nothing more.
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