Orson: Mork.
Mork: Good morning, Orson.
Orson: Orson? You call me Orson to my face, but behind my back you call me "fatso," "rocketship thighs," and "star tush."
Mork: You forgot "laser breath," ah ah! 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 a rather dull lot; the white bread of the universe.
Orson: Emotions have been weeded out of us for the good of the race. And you constantly make jokes. I'm afraid that won't do.
Mork: Uh-oh.
Orson: There's an insignificant planet on the far side of the galaxy. From the fragmentary reports we have on it, the people are, well, uh...
Mork: Real nimnose?
Orson: Exactly. That is why I think you'll fit in there, Mork.
Mork: You're too kind, sir. What's the name of this hellhole you're sending me to?
Orson: Earth.