Blanche: Angela, that was the best meal I've ever had in my entire life.
Angela: Well, how good could it have been? You left half of it.
Blanche: I ate every bite.
Angela: There's some sauce left. If you really like it, you'd take a hunk of that bread and use it to sop it all up. You can afford it.
Blanche: Oh, no I can't. I've put on a few pounds. You just haven't noticed.
Angela: What am I blind? I can see that. I meant the bread. You can afford the bread. It's only 89 cents a loaf.

Sophia: What business did you have inviting my sister to live here?
Dorothy: Ma, what are you talking about? You're the one who invited her to live in Miami.
Sophia: Yeah, Miami the city, not Miami my house.
Dorothy: Am I missing something?
Sophia: You don't know Angela like I do. All my life, she always wanted whatever I had. Even if she didn't want it. She'll live here a while, see how nice I have it, and she'll try to muscle in.
Dorothy: Oh, come on, Ma. I think you're overreacting. Aunt Angela, where are you going?
Angela: I'm going to tape my name on the mailbox. After all, I live here now.
Sophia: Any more bright ideas, linguini-for-brains?

Blanche: Rose. Honey, you've got to stop torturing yourself like this. Now, Count Bessie is gone.
Rose: I know. It's just such a tragedy. Who cooks a musician at the height of her career?
Blanche: Rose, you've got to put this in perspective. Count Bessie was a chicken. It's not as if Angela had fried up Doc Severinsen.

[As Rose plays the chicken's little piano with her nose:]
Rose: Hi, Dorothy.
Dorothy: Hi, Rose. Rose, do you know offhand if 911 is the right number to call for a straitjacket?
Rose: Dorothy, I can explain.
Dorothy: I know you can. That's the scary part.
Rose: You don't understand. When Mrs. Butell finds out about Count Bessie, she'll be devastated. There'll be a terrible void in her life. A void that only another musical chicken can fill.
Dorothy: Look, Rose, if you're worried about voids, start with the one in your head.
Rose: Oh, Dorothy, do you believe it? Four chickens and not one of them has any musical ability.
Dorothy: It's a sad commentary, Rose. All the young chickens are wasting their time playing video games.

Dorothy: It's really a shame you and Ma don't live closer to each other.
Sophia: Dorothy is right. How many years do we have left? Twenty, thirty? We should live in the same town.
Angela: You want to come back to that little village in Sicily?
Sophia: Please, do I look like a woman who beats her laundry on a rock? I meant you should move here, to Miami.

Dorothy: Boy, this chicken looks great.
Rose: Girls. Girls, Count Bessie is missing. I went out to the garage to feed her and her cage was empty. Where could she be?
[After a moment of stunned silence:]
Dorothy: ... Uh, Aunt Angela. Where did you get this chicken?
Angela: The garage.
Blanche: I guess this means no live entertainment with dessert.

Dorothy: Ma thinks that Angela tried to steal her boyfriend.
Blanche: And you don't?
Dorothy: Of course not.
Blanche: Don't be so sure, Dorothy. Angela and Sophia are sisters. Sisters have a natural adversarial relationship.
Rose: That's 'cause it's genetic. It has to do with the double helix of the DNA molecule.
Dorothy: What?
Rose: It's true. I saw it on television. Peter Marshall played this microbiologist on The Love Boat and he was conducting sinister experiments on the Landers sisters.
Dorothy: My apologies, Rose. For a moment there, I didn't think it had been documented.

Dorothy: Gosh. Wasn't that story about the heart transplant amazing?
Blanche: Oh, I wasn't paying attention. I was fantasizing about what Tom Brokaw looks like naked.
Dorothy: He must have sensed it. I thought I saw him looking down your blouse.

Sophia: Look, Dorothy. We won the dance contest at the Sons Of Italy bar.
Blanche: Oh, that's fantastic.
Dorothy: I had no idea you were such a good dancer.
Sophia: In the over-80s category you don't have to be. We were the only couple who could do the mambo without a walker.

Blanche: I will not have that filthy beast in my house. It belongs in a barnyard.
Rose: This is not a farm chicken. Count Bessie is a showbiz chicken. Wait till you see this. [exits]
Blanche: A showbiz chicken? What does she do, play the piano?
Rose: [enters] She plays the piano! You just wait until you see this.