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Sheldon: Ladies, please. These four walls once housed an intellectual salon where the mind received nourishment as well as the stomach. But through no one's fault, Penny, the quality of dinner conversation in this apartment has declined. And again, I'm looking at no one in particular, Penny.

Leonard: Fine. What would you like to talk about, Sheldon?

Howard: What would you like to talk about, Sheldon? Why do you hate us?

Sheldon: I've prepared a number of topics that should appeal to both the advanced and novice conversationalists.

Penny: Okay, that time you looked at me.

Amy: Who didn't? Your skin is like alabaster. Do you even have pores?

Sheldon: Topic one. Faster-than-light particles at CERN, paradigm-shifting discovery or another Swiss export as full of holes as their cheese? And converse.

Penny: All right, who wants to go to my apartment and look at bridal magazines?

Bernadette: Oh, me.

Penny: Through no one's fault, Sheldon, we're leaving.

Amy: Wait for moi.

Sheldon: You're leaving?

Amy: Sheldon, sometimes you forget, I'm a lady. And with that comes an oestrogen fuelled need to page through thick glossy magazines that make me hate my body.

Sheldon: Ah. New topic. Women, delightfully mysterious or bat-crap crazy?

Raj: Totally. What's wrong with cap sleeves? If you have the right figure for it, they're adorable.

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