Hal: I have Kobe beef.
Reese: No way.
Hal: Yes!
Reese: That's like $60 an ounce.
Hal: I know. I won it in a Minesweeper tournament at work. Years of practicing eight hours a day has finally paid off.

Lois: Francis, if it isn't right in the bedroom, it isn't going to be right anywhere else.
Francis: What?
Lois: When I say "the bedroom," I mean sex.
Francis: Yeah, I got it.
Lois: Francis, marriage isn't mental. It isn't even really about feelings. When you get right down to it, it's a sloppy, sweaty physical act. Now, your father may have flaws, he may not make a lot of money, but he has never been other than a rigorous and challenging lover.
Francis: Mom.
Lois: Can I be frank with you?
Francis: No!
Lois: Do you remember sometimes in the morning I'd forget to put juice in your lunchbox? I was lucky I could remember my own name.
Francis: Uh-huh.
Lois: Because, when your father gets down to work, and is intimate with me, he is like a skilled general invading a country. He doesn't just launch an assault by sea, he uses paratroopers and columns of infantry. And even secret agents. [Francis throws up] Honey, good for you. Get it all out. We can talk more later.

Reese: Wow. I've never even seen Kobe beef. It's like meeting the Pope, but you get to eat him.
Hal: Exactly. But this is treated much better than any pope was or ever will be. It lives on beer and ice cream. And right up until the moment of slaughter, its rump and thighs are massaged by geishas.
Reese: It should be eating us!