Looking at that tired old freak has made me realize I’m no spring chicken myself. I can feel death’s clammy hand on my shoulder... wait, that’s my hand.— Grampa
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!