Marge: Why you big...! (She chokes Homer) Bart! Go to your room!
Bart': I'm out of here!
Homer: Look, Marge... Honey... Baby... Doll...
Marge: (turning her back, folding her arms) Homer, I don't even want to look at you right now.
Homer: What are you saying, honey? (Marge points him outside) But where will I sleep?
Marge: (shaking angrily) My suggestion is you sleep in the filth you created!
Homer: Will a motel be okay? (Marge slams the front door in his face)
Mr. Burns: What in blue blazes do you think you're doing, Simpson?
Homer: What do you mean, sir?
Mr. Burns: I mean this! (holds up the picture)
Mr. Burns: A plant employee carrying on like an over-sexed orangutan in heat! This is a family nuclear power plant, Simpson. Our research indicates that over fifty percent of our power is used by women. (wrinkles up the picture into a ball) I will not have you offending my customers with your bawdy shenanigans!
Homer: It won't happen again, sir. I promise! Can I get outta your sight now?
Mr. Burns: Wait a minute, Simpson! Smithers, could you please leave the room?
Mr. Burns: (sadly) Simpson...I am, by most measures, a successful man. I have wealth and power beyond the dreams of you and your clock-punching ilk, and yet, I've led a solitary life. The fair sex remains a mystery to me. You seem to have a way with women. A certain—how should I put it?—"Animal magnétisme." (begging) Help me, Simpson. Tell me your secret.
Homer: Uh, Mr. Burns, in spite of what everybody thinks, I'm no loverboy.
Mr. Burns: (pleasantly) Simpson, I'm asking you nicely.
Homer: I don't really know, sir--
Mr. Burns: (angrily)Simpson!
Homer: (scared) Well, oh, wine 'em! Dine 'em. Bring them flowers. Write them love poetry...sir.
Mr. Burns: Of course! It's simplicity itself! I won't forget this, Simpson. (angrily) Now return to your work, and tell no one of what transpired here.
Homer: I have something to say to all the sons out there. To all the boys, to all the men, to all of us. It's about women, and how they are not mere objects with curves that make us crazy. No, they are our wives. They are our daughters, our sisters, our grandmas, our aunts, our nieces and nephews. Well, not our nephews. They are our mothers. And you know something, folks? As ridiculous as this sounds, I would rather feel the sweet breath of my beautiful wife on the back of my neck as I sleep than to stuff dollar bills into some stranger's G-string. (Princess Kashmir wipes a tear away) Am I wrong? Or am I right?