Postmaster General: "Kramer, I've been, uh, reading some of your material here. I gotta be honest with you: you make a pretty strong case. I mean, just imagine. An army of men in wool pants running through the neighborhood handing out pottery catalogs, door to door."
Kramer: "Yeah! Ha ha."
Postmaster General: "Well, it's my job. And I'm pretty damn serious about it. In addition to being a postmaster, I'm a general. And we both know, it's the job of a general to, by God, get things done. So maybe you can understand why I get a little irritated when someone calls me away from my golf."
Kramer: "I'm very, very sorry."
Postmaster General: "Sure, you're sorry. I think we got a stack of mail out at the desk that belongs to you. Now, you want that mail, don't you Mr. Kramer?"
Kramer: "Sure do!"
Postmaster General, receiving a salute from Kramer: "Now, that's better."
Kramer, seeing Newman walk into the office with a bucket on his head,
escorted by a security man: "Geez. Newman?"
Newman, whimpering: "Tell the world my story."