Cmdr. Silas Nash: You're a cocky son of a bitch, aren't you, Ensign? Yes, you are. So is this an accurate assessment, son? You 'a natural'?
Ens. William Adama: I can fly a plane, sir. 'Natural', I can't say.
Cmdr. Silas Nash: We are ten years in a bad war, son, so now this is how I handle cocky sons of bitches on my ship. I assign them to milk runs until they cool down. (Fasjovik starts to snicker)