Lister: We’re on a mining ship, 3 million years into deep space. Can someone explain to me where the smeg I got this traffic cone?
Cat: Hey, it’s not a good night unless you get a traffic cone! It’s the policewoman’s helmet and the suspenders that I don’t understand!
Kryten: What would you say to a glass of drinking chocolate?
Kochanski: I’d say, “Glass of drinking chocolate, get me out of here!”
Rimmer: So Lister what are you telling us? You’re a closet squirrel? Behind closed doors you parade up and down with a strap-on bushy tail, calling yourself Nutkin?
Rimmer: Look, I think we’ve all got something to bring to this conversation, but I think that from now on what you should bring is silence.
Rimmer: Please rush me my portable walrus polishing kit. Four super brushes to tackle even the trickiest of sea-bound mammals. Yes, I am over 18, although my IQ isn’t.
Kochanski (to the noisy pipes, after she’s smacked them with a wrench): What did I tell you? I told you! Didn’t I tell you? How many times have I told you? Right, what was the last one? “Nureek.” So the next one will be a “rotut” and the one after that will be a “hanunga.” Four seconds, three seconds, two seconds… [the pipes rotut, she whacks them] Now “hanunga.” [the pipes nureek] No, that’s wrong! You’ve gone out of sequence! “Nureek,” “rotut,” “hanunga!” What’s wrong with you? If you’re going to keep me up all night just do it right, okay?
Kryten: I’m up and down more often than a pair of kangaroos in the mating season!
Rimmer: Kryten, kindly get to the point before I jam your nose between your cheeks and make it the filling of a buttocks sandwich.
Lister sings “Lunar City Seven”.
RIMMER: Lister, have you ever been hit over the head with a welding mallot?
Lister: It’s really debilitating being crazy about somebody. You lose 20 IQ points every time you see them.
Rimmer: You must be nuts about a fair few people then.
Holly: I know what I did wrong last time. It’s a mistake any deranged, half-witted computer could have made.
Rimmer: They’ve been naughty boys, haven’t they, Mr. Flibble?
Mr. Flibble: Yes.
Rimmer: What happens to naughty boys who’ve been naughty, Mr. Flibble?
Mr. Flibble: Uncle Arnie fries them alive with his Hex Vision.
Rimmer: That’s right, Mr. Flibble.
Lister: It’s just a box with “STOP” and “START” on it!
Holly: Fairly straightforward. If you want to start it, press “START.” You can work out the rest of the controls for yourself.
Rimmer: I had to get out of there. He’s driving me nuts. I cannot stand front-seat drivers.
Kristine Kochanski: I don’t know about this. I’ve never been seduced by Predeterminism Theory before.
(Lister and Cat are playing Scrabble. Cat lays down all seven letters across a triple-word score)
Lister: What? “JOZYXQE”? That’s not a word!
Cat: Sure it is! It’s a Cat word.
Lister: OK, what’s it mean?
Cat: It’s the sound you make when you have your sexual organs trapped in something…
Lister: Is it in the dictionary?
Cat: Well it could be, if you were reading in the nude and you close the book too fast!
mimes “close the dictionary” actionJOZZYYYXYXYXYYXAHSQukjrfQADS!!!
Holly: I just don’t know where we are. There’s no two ways about it: I flamingoed up.
Rimmer: What do you mean?
Holly: It’s like a cock-up, only much much bigger.
Lister: I prefer something slightly more melodious. Like the long, drawn-out death rattle of a man suffering from terminal flatulence.
Holly: Rude alert! Rude alert! An electrical fire has knocked out my voice recognition unicycle! Many Wurlitzers are missing from my database! Abandon shop! This is not a daffodil. Repeat: This is not a daffodil!
Rimmer: Well, thankfully Holly’s unaffected.
Kryten: At 0700 hours tomorrow morning my shutdown disc will be activated and all mental and physical operations will cease.
Lister: Then what?
Kryten: I don’t know… maybe I’ll get a job as a disc jockey!
Lister: What’s that mark on your face, Hol?
Holly: What face?
Rimmer: Ace and Skipper?! You sound like a kids’ TV series about a boy and his bush kangaroo!
Rimmer: Look, Lister, no point feeling sorry about Holly. It’s a kindness. Like a blind old incontinent sheepdog, he’s had his day. Take him out to the barn with a double-barreled shot-gun and blow the mother away. And I’m only saying that because I’m so fond of him.
Kryten: Step on board the ‘love express’, sir! Now, we get to his quarters through the air vents; I’ve paid off the guards. Then you make him look like the nerdiest slob in the entire universe: this is what you leave in his quarters — a half-eaten onion sandwich. That’s always a passion-killer.
Lister: Is it? I like those.
Kryten: Then there’s this: “Morris Dancer Monthly”. What a total dweebo, nerdmeister he’ll look with those!
Rimmer: They’re mine!
Kryten: And then there’s these: tragically unfashionable underpants.
Rimmer: They’re mine!
Kryten: And finally: Christian rock music. If that doesn’t scare her off, nothing will.
Rimmer: Have you been going through my things?
Holly: Engage drive. Drive engaged. Initialise ignition sequence. Ignition sequence initialised.
Rimmer: Get on with it!
Holly: Takes time, this. One slight error in any one of my 13 billion calculations, we’ll all be blown to smithereens. Here we go then. Ten… nine… eight… six… five… four…
Rimmer: You missed number seven!
Holly: Did I? I’ve always had a bit of a blind spot for sevens.
Rimmer: We’re going to die.
Holly: No problem. I’ll start lower down. One, blast off.