Dorothy: Maybe there is something I can say. And I want to apologize for this story before I begin. Have you ever heard of a little town called St. Olaf?
Fred: No.
Dorothy: Perfect. Now, as it was told to me - and I have to admit that I wasn't listening that closely - there was this farmer named Nils Nibelung, and he had a pig named Brunhilde, and she won all the blue ribbons at all the county fairs. Well, Nils also had a daughter named Fricka, and she won red ribbons - usually as runner-up to the pig.
Fred: Does this story have a point?
Dorothy: You asked that at just the right time. Anyway, one April, Nils decided to breed Brunhilde - that's the pig, not the daughter - and he chose April because that's when pigs are at their most beautiful and desirable. Unfortunately, so was Fricka. So while Brunhilde and the pig were doing their thing, Fricka and the local pig breeder were doing theirs. God, I hope I got the names right. Anyway, when Nils heard about it, he banished Fricka from his house and his life forever.
Fred: So?
Dorothy: So after a while he lost interest in the pig's company and he ate her. And he died St. Olaf's loneliest man.
Fred: Is that the end of the story?
Dorothy: God, I hope so.

Rose: Maybe we should sign Mary up for some natural childbirth classes.
Dorothy: That's not a bad idea. I wish I'd known about them when I was pregnant. I didn't know what to do, except scream at Stan never to touch me again and call him every name in the book.
Rose: Rough labor?
Dorothy: Rough conception.

Dorothy: Where are you gonna go?
Blanche: I'll be staying with my friend Janet. She said I could spend the night there anytime. Or was it her husband Ed who said that?

Mary: I'll come back tomorrow and get the rest of my stuff.
Sophia: Keep us posted. Let us know how you're doing.
Rose: Don't forget, Tuesday we have mime class.
Dorothy: Mime class?
Rose: The Lamaze class was all filled up.

Blanche: Oh, she doesn't need those classes. I think women ought to have babies the way God intended: strapped to a table, numb from the neck down.

Blanche: These letters are just a fantasy. The man is in prison for the next 20 years for armed robbery.
Dorothy: Blanche, I don't think it's right to lead the guy on like that.
Blanche: Why not? The poor man is surrounded by concrete and bars. What's wrong with bringing a little joy into his life?
Rose: Nothing at all. Back in St. Olaf, our justice system is very progressive. Their motto was, "Use a gun, go apologize."

Dorothy: We were just explaining to Merrill that there's no telling when Blanche will be back.
Blanche: Oh, Lord, no. There's no use waiting around. You wouldn't like Blanche anyway.
Rose: She's not your type.
Blanche: That's right. She isn't.
Rose: She's very cold.
Blanche: Frigid. Hardly likes men at all.
Rose: And she's ugly. Isn't she?
Blanche: "Ugly" is a pretty strong word, Rose.
Rose: And wrinkled. Isn't she?
Blanche: She is not wrinkled.
Rose: And fat.
Blanche: Stop that! You just stop that right now. She is none of those things, Rose Nylund. She is gorgeous. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous!
Merrill: All right, all right. Sounds good. Tell Blanche I'll be back. [exits]
Blanche: And stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Dorothy: Fred, I think I know how you feel about Mary.
Fred: No, you don't.
Sophia: You feel, because Mary went out and got herself pregnant, she's a slut. Well, let me tell you what a slut is. It's someone who gets knocked up in the back seat of a Studebaker at a drive-in movie. It was a Studebaker, wasn't it, Dorothy?
Dorothy: It was a Nash, Ma.
Sophia: Now, that's a slut.

Blanche: Oh, I loved high school. It seems like only yesterday, riding around with the boys in their cars, and the dances.
Dorothy: Don't forget the Hindenburg disaster.

Dorothy: Ma, look who's here.
Sophia: Oh! So, Mary, when's the baby due?
Dorothy: Ma, you're talking to a 16-year-old girl.
Sophia: A knocked-up sixteen-year-old girl. [Mary nods]
Dorothy: Ma, how did you know?
Sophia: Because you had the same look of panic on your face when you got pregnant. Kind of like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. I thought only pregnant teenagers had that expression, until I saw Dan Quayle on TV.