No way, Bart. If I lean over, I leave myself open to wedgies, wet willies, or even the dreaded rear-admiral!— Milhouse
Mr. Burns: Look at them all, through the darkness I'm bringing. They're not sad at all, they're actually singing! They sing without juicers... They sing without blenders... They sing without flunjers, kadabblers and smendlers!
Lisa: Oh no! I'll be socially unpopular... more so.
1900s Worker: You can't treat the working man this way! One day we'll form a union, and get the fair and equitable treatment we deserve! Then we'll go too far and get corrupt and shiftless, and the Japanese will eat us alive!
Burns' Grandfather: The Japanese? Those sandal-wearing goldfish-tenders? Bosh! Flimshaw!
Lisa: Do you think you can get the dental plan back?
Homer: Well that depends on who's a better negotiator: Mr. Burns or me.
Bart: Dad, I'll trade you this delicious doorstop for your crummy old Danish.
Homer: Done and done. (realizes) D'oh!
Burns: We don't have to be adversaries, Homer. We both want a fair union contract.
Homer: (thinking) Why is Mr. Burns being so nice to me?
Burns: And if you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.
Homer: (thinking) Wait a minute, is he coming on to me?
Burns: I mean, if I should slip something into your pocket, what's the harm?
Homer: (thinking) Oh my God, he is coming on to me!
Burns: After all, negotiations make strange bedfellows. (chuckles and winks)
Homer: (thinking) Aah! (aloud) Sorry Mr. Burns, but I don't go in for these back door shenanigans. Sure I'm flattered, maybe even a little curious. But the answer is no!
Burns: Ah Homer. I hope Crusher and Lowblow didn't hurt you.
Homer: You know, you could have just called me.
Burns: Oh yes, but the telephone is so impersonal. I prefer the hands-on touch you only get with hired goons.
Homer: Hired goons?
Burns: This is a thousand monkeys working at a thousand typewriters. Soon they'll have written the greatest novel known to man! Let's see... (reads one) "It was the best of times; It was the blurst of times"? You stupid monkey!
Marge: They love you down at the plant.
Homer: Yeah, you're right. Guys are always patting my bald head for luck, pinching my belly to hear my girlish laugh...
Marge: Hmm, that doesn't sound like they like you at all.
Homer: You know, I think you're right. First thing tomorrow morning I'm gonna punch Lenny in the back of the head!
Grampa: We can't bust heads like we used to, but we have our ways. One trick is to tell 'em stories that don't go anywhere - like the time I caught the ferry over to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for my shoe, so I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. "Give me five bees for a quarter," you'd say. Now where were we? Oh yeah: the important thing was I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn't have white onions because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones...
Brockman: Homer, organised labor has been called a "lumbering dinosaur".
Brockman: Uh, my director is telling me not to talk to you anymore.
Burns: Fifteen minutes from now, I will wreak a terrible vengeance on this city. No one will be spared! NO ONE!!
Brockman: (chuckles) A chilling vision of things to come.
Burns: Goodbye Springfield! From hell's heart I stab at thee.
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