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Ari Gold: Tsetse Fly . . .

Ari Gold: Let's hug it out, bitch.

Ari Gold: Listen, Lloyd, I want you to put all my files, folders, binders, *everything* into a box! If you find a used condom, an executioner's mask, and a fucking spike paddle, don't think, just pack that bitch! Chop suey!

Ari's Wife: Where are you going? Ari Gold: They flew in the liver, and I gotta do the transplant.

Ari Gold: You can have it if you want to live in Agora fucking hills, and go to group therapy, but if you want a Beverly Hills mansion, a country club membership, and nine weeks a year in a Tuscan villa, then I'm gonna need to take a call when it comes in at noon on a motherfucking Wednesday.

Ari Gold: We are gonna get drunk with Russell Crowe and we're gonna head-butt some goddamn kangaroos.

• Ari Gold: [answering "emergency" phone call from Eric] There better be a SCUD missile headed towards L.A, Eric.
• Eric: No, Ari, it's a fucking iceberg.
• Ari Gold: What are you talking about?
• Eric: James Cameron's directing Aquaman.
• Ari Gold: Bullshit. Where'd you hear that, Friendster?
• Eric: Josh Weinstein, asshole. Now, why don't you get your hand off your dick and go call somebody.

• Ari's Wife: What's in the bag?
• Ari Gold: A kilo of blow. What's with all the fucking questions?