Stan: I'll tell you, Johnny, I've been in this neighborhood for...[pulls out his gun and points it at Johnny] BAM!!
Stan: Bam! [pulls out his gun and points it at Johnny]
Stan: Dead kid in the cornfield! Crows pecking out your eyes! Mama can't find you for weeks!
Johnny: You're an ass, Mr. Smith.
Stan: And you're funny lookin'.
Stan: Wave goodbye to the neighbors. Ordinary that would have racist implications but I've actually done something far worse.
Stan: I hope ponies are illegal!
Roger: [making a bogus telephone complaint] I was making my grandchildren some of your French Onion soup, I poured the contents of the can into a saucepan and out plops a human finger. Now the stress of this incident has given me walking nightmares, street terrors, diabetes and hysterical pregnancy. Now I am going to require a substantial cash settlement somewhere in the amount of whatever one of those ionic breeze machines costs. My address is, huh... do I have the finger? Uhh... [hangs up] Damn! The Lipton woman outfoxed me again.
Stan: I am a rock. I am an island. I am incontinent! Get it? It sounds like "continent."
Francine: Hey, why don't we throw a party of our own? You know, to show them that they're wrong about you.
Stan: That's a brilliant idea. We should form a think tank, what with your ability to come up with ideas and and my ability to assess their worth.
Francine: We should call it "Thoughts Unlimited."
Stan: That's terrible.
Stan: My God, everybody hates me. I feel like a Jew outside of New York or Los Angeles.
Stan: [to Francine] Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I'm not beloved! I'm hated! I'm surrounded by people who hate me! It's our wedding all over again, except I'm you!
Stan: This is how life should be. No one to criticize me, No one to disagree, No one to... [starts choking on a nut] Help me!