Mork: [talking to himself] Boy, am I in for it now. Sent before the white desk again. What did I do? The solar lander, you fool, you painted a mustache on it. But Orson doesn't know I did it. Then why am I here? If I knew that I wouldn't be talking to myself.
Mork: Good morning, Orson.
Orson: Orson. You call me Orson to my face, but behind my back you call me fatso, rocket ship thighs, and star-tush.
Mork: You forgot 'laser breath.' Ar-ar [looks down] Sorry your immenseness.
Orson: See what I mean? These constant displays of humor are not acceptable behavior here on Ork.
Mork: You're right, we are rather a dull lot. The white bread of the universe.