Ace: Sorry, Bongo, I'm strictly butter-side up.
Ace: Smoke me a kipper, skipper; I'll be back for breakfast.
Kryten, unpack Rachel and get out the puncture repair kit. I'm ALIVE!!!!!
If you had two people coming for a job, and one of them was dead, which one would you pick?
Lister: Love is what separates us from animals
Rimmer: No, Lister -- what separates us from animals is that we don't use our tongues to clean our own genitals.
What about the Rimmer Directive, which states, "Never tangle with anything that's got with more teeth than the entire Osmond family"?
He's got mad droid disease. He kept waving a banana in front of me and calling it a female aardvark.
Mellie: If you're interested, I'll be in my quarters, covered in maple syrup.
Ace: Sorry, Mellie -- I don't fraternise with staff.
Mellie: I resign.
Ace: I'll be there at 1300.
I thought it was the worst pile of blubbery schoolgirl mush I have ever been forced to endure. I consider it an insult to my backside to have to sit growing carbuncles through such putrid adolescent slush.
Nirvana: It was... different.
Nirvana: You make love like a Japanese meal. Small portions but SO many courses.
(Small talk after making love with Nirvana)
I'm sorry. I must seem very ignorant. I hardly said anything, apart from `Geronimo'.
Kryten: That is the Inquisitor. He prunes away the wastrels, expunges the wretched, and deletes the worthless.
Rimmer: We're in big trouble.
Rimmer: This master character... and I acknowledge I may not want to know the full answer to this one -- but why does he want me oiling particulary? Obviously whatever he has in mind is facilitated by my being slippery and pliant, yes?
Woman1: He always likes his victims to be oiled. An oiled body is so much better for conducting the electricity.
Rimmer: Not the best news, but it could have been worse.
Mr Flibble: Game over, boys!
Mr Flibble: So let me get this straight. You want to fly on a magic carpet to see the King of the Potato People and plead with him for your freedom, and you're telling me you're completely sane?
(To the crew as he bids them farewell)
I just want to say: over the years, I have come to regard you as ... people I met.
Billy Doyle. Well, that's a name that comes from the wrong side of the the tracks, isn't it? You can see it all now: a youth spent in and out of corrective institutions; a string of illegitimate children; the wife will be all white shoes, no tights and blotchy legs; has to take up petty crime to cover the court orders for maintenance; before he knows it, he's standing in a bank with a sawn-off shotgun; somehow, it goes off; an old lady gets both barrels through a crocheted bobble hat; all he can do is hide, but where?; and then it hits him... with his ill-gotten gains he can buy four years in a computer game and wait until the heat is off. And so ends the Ballad of Billy `Granny-Killer' Doyle.
This is a nightmare. I'm on the run from the fascist police with a murderer, a mass murderer and a man in a bri-nylon shirt. I'm a piece of flotsam, jetsam human wreckage sputum bag who smells like a yak latrine, and now my best flashing mac is about to be splattered with an android's brain. I'm after you with the gun.
Um, I think we're all beginning to lose sight of the real issue here, which is "What are we going to call ourselves?" um, and I think it comes down to a choice between `The League Against Salivating Monsters' or my own personal preference, which is `The Committee for the Liberation and Integration of Terrifying Organisms and their Rehabilitation Into Society'. Um, one drawback with that... the abbreviation is `CLITORIS'.