Well, that’s odd … I’ve just robbed a man of his livelihood, and yet I feel strangely empty. Tell you what, Smithers – have him beaten to a pulp.
I could crush him like an ant. But it would be too easy. No, revenge is a dish best served cold. I’ll bide my time until … Oh, what the hell. I’ll just crush him like an ant.
What good is money if it can’t inspire terror in your fellow man?
Just give the great unwashed a pair of oversized breasts and a happy ending, and they’ll ‘oink’ for more every time.
Mr. Burns: You’re fired.
Marge: You can’t fire me just because I’m married. I’m gonna sue the pants off of you.
Mr. Burns: You don’t have to sue me to get my pants off.
Smithers, for attempting to kill me, I’m giving you a five percent pay cut!
I’m looking for something in an attack dog. One who likes the sweet gamey tang of human flesh. Hmmm, why here’s the fellow … Wiry, fast, firm, proud buttocks. Reminds me of me.
Mr. Burns: So, Smithers, what are you doing this weekend. Something gay, I expect?
Mr. Burns: You know, light and fancy free! Mothers, lock up your daughters! Smithers is on the town!
Smithers: Oh! Of course.
Ooh, the Germans are mad at me. I’m so scared! Oooh, the Germans!
This house has quite a long and colorful history. It was built on an ancient Indian burial ground, and was the setting of Satanic rituals, witch-burnings, and five John Denver Christmas specials.
Bad corpse! Stop … scaring … Smithers!
A lifetime of working with nuclear power has left me with a healthy green blow… and left me as impotent as a Nevada boxing commissioner.
Look at them, Smithers. Goldbrickers…. Layabouts…. Slug-a-beds! Little do they realise their days of suckling at my teat are numbered.
Mr. Burns: This anonymous clan of slack-jawed troglodytes has cost me the election, and yet if I were to have them killed, I would be the one to go to jail. That’s democracy for you.
Smithers: You are noble and poetic in defeat, sir.
Mr. Burns: Nonsense! Dogs are idiots! Think about it, Smithers. If I came into your house and started sniffing at your crotch and slobbering all over you, what would you say?
Smithers: If you did it, sir?
[Stone flies through Mr. Burns’ office window]
Look Smithers, a bird has become petrified and lost its sense of direction.
Do my worst, eh? Smithers, release the robotic Richard Simmons.
Ah, Monday morning. Time to pay for your two days of debauchery, you hungover drones.