I am not giving up, Mr. Monk. You are officially on notice. I am throwing you a party.
As a matter of fact, you are not.
Oh, yes I am. We're going to have balloons and cake and dancing!
Oh, for the love of God, why?
Because, Mr. Monk, it's your birthday, and whether you like it or not, you have friends who love you and want to celebrate your life. We're happy you were born.
You are so cruel.
[They see a small sheet on a stretcher covering what remains of Bradley Foster]
Oh my God! Where's the rest of him? [Stottlemeyer and some other cops come up from beneath the compactor]
That's all there is [of him].
But he's all... squished!
His name was Bradley Foster; he was the maintenance man. Apparently he fell into the trash compactor.
We've sent a guy to check the parking lot for his car.
I'd look for a compact. [The other cops burst out laughing]
That's not funny!
Hey did you see what he was wearing? Those aren't briefs; they're more like boxers! [More laughter]
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