You don’t understand, Marge. The lottery is the one ray of hope in my otherwise unbearable life! ...Uh, the lottery and you.— Homer
Bart: If you really wanted us to be neater, you'd serve us out of one long bowl.
Marge: You're talking about a trough. We're not going to eat from a trough. And another thing, it's only 5:15. Why are you in your underwear?
Bart: Hey, this ain't the Ritz.
Otto: (outside Stoner's Pot Palace) Man, that is flagrant false advertising!
Marge: Are you ready?
Homer: (in his underwear) Just gotta put my shoes on!
Marge: The only thing I asked you to do for this party was put on clothes, and you didn't do it.
Bart: Hello, I'm Doctor Hibbert. I'm afraid I'm going to have to amputate... your butt.
Marge: Homer, is this the way you pictured married life?
Homer: Yeah, pretty much. Except we drove around in a van solving mysteries.
Kirk: You're letting me go?
Manager: Kirk, crackers are a family food, happy families. Maybe single people eat crackers, we don't know. Frankly, we don't want to know. It's a market we can do without.
Kirk: So that's it after twenty years? "So long, good luck"?
Manager: I don't recall saying "good luck".
Homer: Marge, will you marry me?
Marge: Why? Am I pregnant?
Reverend Lovejoy: I will now read the special vows which Homer has prepared for this occasion. Do you, Marge, take Homer, in richness and in poorness? Poorness is underlined. In impotence and in potence? In quiet solitude or blasting across the alkali flats in a jet-power, monkey navigated... and it goes on like this.