Inspired by the most logical race in the galaxy, The Vulcans, breeding will be permitted once every seven years. For many of you, this will mean much less breeding. For me, much much more.— CBG
Flanders: Well, if God didn't make little green apples, it's Homer Simpson! How long have you been here?
Homer: Twenty of the suckiest minutes of my life.
Marge: Next to Spring and Winter, Fall is my absolute favorite season. Just look at all this beautiful foilage.
Lisa: It's not "foilage," Mom, it's "foliage." <i>Fo-liage.</i>
Marge: That's what I said, foilage. It doesn't take a nuclear scientist to pronounce foilage.
Mr. Burns: Oh this might take a while, Smithers. Why don't you get drunk and stumble around comically for my amusement?
Smithers: I'll be a one-man conga line, sir.
Homer: Can't they get a pole for that sign?
Bart: That's a hitchhiker, Homer.
Homer: Ooh, let's pick him up!
Marge: No! What if he's crazy?
Homer: And what if he's not? Then we'd look like idiots.
Lisa: (talking about Mr. Burns) He stole our puppies.
Marge: He sexually harassed me.
Grampa: He stole my fiancé.
Homer: He made fun of my weight.
Larry Burns: Okay, so there's been a bit of friction. Know his address?
Mr. Burns: You, foodbag - do you have a son?
Homer: Yes sir, I do.
Mr. Burns: And is he a constant disappointment? Does he bring home nitwits and make you talk to them?
Homer: Oh, all the time! Have you ever heard of this kid Milhouse? He's a little wiener who--
Mr. Burns: Fascinating. Goodnight.
Kent Brockman: A bloody end for Homer Simpson... is just one of several possible outcomes according to our computer simulation. Now, here's how it would look if the police killed him with a barrage of baseballs.
Wiggum: Don't be a fool, Simpson! Let the kid go!
Mr. Burns: The negotiations have failed. Shoot him!
Mr. Burns: Smithers, take off my belt.
Smithers: With pleasure, sir!