INT. TALKING HEAD—DAY
STANLEY: The office smells vaguely of shit. It gets so you don’t mind. That’s the worst of it. You know how long I’ve been here? Too long. When you die you’re going to regret the things you didn’t do. You think you’re a pervert? I’m going to tell you something. We’re all perverts. You’re a thief. So be it. Befuddled by corporate morality? Shut it out. You think you’re going to hell? Too late. Hell exists on earth. Here. At Dunder-Mifflin.
INT. MICHAEL’S OFFICE—DAY
DWIGHT: I pitched those cocksuckers in Allentown. They wouldn’t buy. They wouldn’t buy a paper clip. They’re dead. I want new leads, Michael. I want leads that didn’t come out of the phone book.
MICHAEL: I can’t do it. Money’s tight. You know how much those leads cost.
DWIGHT: I need my balls back. My girlfriend, she’s … I can get hot. You know that.
MICHAEL: You blew the last …
DWIGHT: Come on. Jim’s throwing the Abington leads away. All I’m asking for …
MICHAEL: I can’t do it.
DWIGHT: Help me out.
MICHAEL: Maybe something off the B list.
INT. OFFICE—DAY
(PAM and JIM are at their desks. PAM calls JIM. Phone RINGS. JIM picks up.)
PAM: Itus. I-T-U-S or I-T-I-S?
JIM: I’m sorry …
PAM: I-T-I-S. Arthur Itis. Give me a lead.
JIM: A lead?
PAM: Dwight needs leads.
JIM: Arthur Itus?
PAM: I.P. Freely.
JIM: Hoo Flung Poo.
PAM: Nora Lender Bee.
JIM: Seymore Fellows.
PAM: Butts.
INT. CHILI’S—DAY
MICHAEL: So how’d you do last night?
RYAN: Are you kidding me?
MICHAEL: Yeah … no.
RYAN: How’d you do last night?
MICHAEL: Twenty-something-year-old comes up to me.
RYAN: Are you kidding me?
MICHAEL: Tits out to here.
RYAN: She knew the play.
MICHAEL: Nah.
RYAN: No?
MICHAEL: She wrote the play.
RYAN: A real pro.
MICHAEL: Pro wrestler.
RYAN: Wanted her seat back?
MICHAEL: Yep.
RYAN: Yeah.
INT. TALKING HEAD—DAY
STANLEY: I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. Comfort? Security? It means nothing to me anymore. What is it? Paper. Smooth finish. Twenty-five percent cotton rag. Bullshit.