Should we call the spitter?

I can't believe I have to go back to work to get spit on again.

Incentive for Men? I'll take some of that. Phoebe, that's for men. I know.

What, are you nuts? We've got George Stephanopoulos' pizza!

You're lucky. At least the people that spit on you are famous.

Who spits on you? I don't want to talk about work.

Pheebs, who's George Snuffleupagus? That's Big Bird's friend.

Okay, first I'm not crazy. And second, say it don't spray it.

I got you a talking Thomas the Tank Engine for Thanksgiving. With real puffing smoke? Yes. All right. But I'm watching you.

Wait. Did you say G. Stephanopoulos? Yeah, this one goes across the street. I must give him yours. Bonehead. Bonehead.

Wait. You' re not G. Stephanopoulos? Oh, man, my dad's gonna kill me.

You mean the spitter? Come on. It wasn't that bad. Easy for you to say; you'll be wearing a veil.

You'd better go before he starts spraying you with Lysol.

Okay, you stay here, and just wait by the phone. Spray Lysol in my shoe, and wait for Ross to kill you.

Even our shower head is broke, Earl. We got blasted with rusty water and something thick. I feel so dirty.

That's right. That's right. Saran Wrap on the toilet seat so the pee goes everywhere. Oh that.

I disagree. Love is not a sprint. It's a marathon. a relentless pursuit that only ends when she falls into your arms or hits you with the pepper spray.