Oh, son, don’t overreach. Go for the dented car the dead-end job, the less attractive girl. I blame myself: I should have had this talk a long time ago.— Grampa
Grampa: 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: I leave these: a box of mint-condition 1918 liberty-head silver dollars. You see, back in those days, rich men would ride around in Zeppelins, dropping coins on people, and one day I seen J. D. Rockefeller flying by. So I run of the house with a big washtub and… hey! Where are you going?
Grampa: Anyway, about my washtub. I’d just used it that morning to wash my turkey, which in those days was known as... a walking bird. We'd always have walking bird on Thanksgiving with all the trimmings: cranberries, injun eyes, yams stuffed with gunpowder. Then we'd all watch football, which in those days was called "baseball"...
Grampa: Eh, why didn't you get something useful, like storm windows, or a nice pipe organ? I'm thirsty! Ew, what smells like mustard? There're sure a lot of ugly people in your neighborhood. Oh! Look at that one. Ow, my glaucoma just got worse. The president isn’t Democrat! Hello? I can't unbuckle my seat belt. Hello? (coming inside) There are too many leaves in your walkway...
Grampa: Why are you people avoiding me? Does my withered face remind you of the grim specter of Death?
Homer: Yes, but there's more. Dad, I love you...but you're a weird, sore-headed old crank, and nobody likes you.
Lisa: It's not funny, Bart. Millions of girls will grow up thinking that this is the right way to act - that they can never be more than vacuous ninnies whose only goal is to look pretty, land a rich husband, and spend all day on the phone with their equally vacuous friends talking about how damn terrific it is to look pretty and have a rich husband!
Bart: Just what I was going to say.
Lisa: Mom! We could go on the factory tour and I could complain in person!
Marge: Honey, you're not going to throw red paint at the executives, are you? The Keebler people were very upset.
Lisa: It's awful being a kid. No one listens to you.
Grampa: It's rotten being old. No one listens to you.
Homer: I'm a white male, age 18 to 49. Everyone listens to me, no matter how dumb my suggestions are!
Lisa: Change what she says. It's your company.
Stacey: Not since I was forced out in 1974. They said my way of thinking just wasn't cost effective.
Lisa: That's awful.
Stacey: Well, that, and I was funneling profits to the Viet Cong.
Mr. Peterson: We need some more secret sauce. Put this mayonnaise in the sun.
Lisa: I'd be mortified if someone ever made a lousy product with the Simpson name on it.
Lisa: This is great. They're really going to sell our doll!
Stacey: Well, it wasn't difficult. I just told them who I was, and who you were, and they couldn't resist.
Stacey: Well, I didn't tell them who you were.
Grampa: I shouldn't be listening to complaints - I should be making them with you guys! The good Lord lets us grow old for a reason: to gain the wisdom to find fault with everything He's made.