"Oh, come on, I love bowling! It's the perfect workout. Six seconds of exercise, drink beer half an hour."
"Why should I give up bowling? It's my only relaxation. Besides, the exercise is good for me to keep my weight down."
"Thank you for a memorable afternoon, usually one must go to a bowling alley to meet a woman of your stature."
"Here, potions for the fine arts, such as painting, sculpture, music and bowling."
"I'm on edge. Thirty-eight days, sixteen hours, and twelve minutes have passed since I killed my brother. In that entire time, I haven't had a single night to myself. Sergeant Doakes makes sure of that. He follows me everywhere now. A human bloodhound incited by the scent of darkness. My best hope of losing him is to act relentlessly normal. Dull. So I bowl. What's really disturbing is that I'm good at it."
"Our lives are in the hands of men no smarter than you or I. Many of them incompetent boobs. I know this because I've worked alongside them, gone bowling with them and watched them pass me over for promotions time and time again."
"Listen Jerry, bowling is a man's sport. If God had wanted women to bowl, he would have put their breasts on their backs so we would have something to watch while waiting our turn."
"Ah, the alleys . . . It's really a sensory experience, you know. The scent of Aqua Net on a beehive hairdo. The roar of polyester rubbing against old Naugahyde. The site of a cigarette stubbed out on a patty melt. All this plus the anticipation of placing your feet in shoes only seven thousand others have worn before you."
"It all comes down to this roll. Roy Munson, a man-child, with a dream to topple bowling giant Ernie McCracken. If he strikes, he's the 1979 Odor-Eaters Champion. He's got one foot in the frying pan and one in the pressure cooker. Believe me, as a bowler, I know that right about now, your bladder feels like an overstuffed vacuum cleaner bag and your butt is kinda like an about-to-explode bratwurst."
"Smokey, this is not 'Nam. This is bowling. There are rules."