G: Dawn, Vi has left her notebook on the mantlepiece. Would you mind running it out to the car?
G: And while you're at it, smack her on the head with it and remind her not to leave it lying around.
D: On it.
G: And then, apparently someone told them that the vision quest consists of me driving them to the desert, doing the hokey-pokey until a spooky Rasta mama-slayer arrives and speaks to them in riddles.
B: That's not exactly how I put it.
W: She says she wants you to meditate extra hard for her and bring her back some s'mores.
G: Ah, yes, s'mores. I'm going to end up singing campfire songs, aren't I?
D: Molly and Rona are fighting over who gets to drive the first leg.
B: Bet you wish you'd renewed that California state driver's license now, huh?
A: Rona won. You should probably let Molly out of the trunk. I never actually realized just how compact Molly really is.
S: Give us all a chance for a breather, eh?
B: From Giles?
S: From the constant pitter-patter of clomping teen-age girlie feet.
B: I enjoy my responsibility as mentor, role-model, life guide... Oh my god, I cannot believe I have my bathroom all to myself for two whole days.
W: Turns out when a secret government agency studies vampires and puts chips in their brains that keep them from hurting people, they don't really build web sites.
B: Remember when things used to be boring?
B: Have fun delivering the tea.
W: Okay, not when you make it sound all dirty like that. It's just tea.
W: For someone who's sick, you look surprisingly robust and casual-dressy.
W: This is a mission?
K: Oh, yeah.
W: And the little paper umbrellas are a signal for what?
W: What, you think you have some sort of special lesbi-dar or something?
K: Okay, you know there's a better word for that, right?
B: We'll hit serious research mode.
S: Try "Behavioral Modification Software Throughout the Ages."
B: Okay. You're right. Not a book thing. It's a phone thing.
S: Who you gonna call? [Buffy looks at him] God, that phrase is never gonna be usable again, is it?
B: Is this actually a flower shop, or is this one of those things where I'm supposed to play along to show that I know it's really secret ops? Maybe I shouldn't have said that.
B: Wrong number. Or a giant government conspiracy.
K: We like the same things. Italian, skate punk, Robert Parker mysteries, fighting evil.
W: I don't like any of that stuff. Except the fighting evil part. Even then, I'd prefer a nice foot massage.
W: Are you okay? I'm not used to literally knocking girls off of their feet with just the power of my lips.
An: Your promises of happy fields and dancing schnauzers and being demi-gods won't work on me any more.
W: Hey! Bad touching.
W: There are other stories from kindergarten. Non-yellow-crayon stories in which you don't come out in such a good light. An incident involving Aquaman underoos, for example. Do you want me to start talking?
X: Hey, Willow!
K: Okay, safe to say no one will ever accuse you of being too butch.
Gun store clerk: So, same model as last time? How'd that work out for you?
W: You'd be amazed.
D: I feel him, I feel him.
X: Me too.
An: And me.
G: Good. We all feel each other. Including some of us who don't know each other well enough to take such liberties, thank you. I assume there is a perfectly reasonable and not at all insane explanation, yes?
G: Now, wait a minute... You think I'm evil if I bring a group of girls on a camping trip and don't touch them?
Army guy: We're to provide you anything you need to help ass-face here. Those were his exact words, ma'am.
Am: Oh, just your standard penance malediction, is all.
K: Okay, and that's magic crazy talk for what?
Am: I put a hex on her.
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