Dorothy: Oh, morning, Ma. You sleep OK?
Sophia: No. I got up in the middle of the night and there was a puddle in my bed. Do you know how relieved I was to find out the roof was leaking?

Sophia: Let me tell you a story. Picture it. Sardinia, 1932.
Blanche: I thought these stories of yours always took place in Sicily.
Sophia: Can't a person go away for the weekend? Anyway, I'm on a tour of the great caper factories of Sardinia. I was a kooky kid going through my piccata period. A wedge of lemon and a smart answer for everything. Anyway, I was I was slicing an onion when suddenly this big basil tree--
Dorothy: Ma, what the hell are you talking about? You're not making any sense.
Sophia: I was hoping the late hour would help to mask that. I don't have a story about taking advantage of a dead guy for money. I got a great story about a Moroccan and a monkey, but that really comes under the heading of lust.

Blanche: Girls, look, a mime.
Rose: Oh, I just love a mime. It's all on account of my Uncle Gustav. He was a coal mimer.
Blanche: You mean a coal miner.
Rose: No, a coal mimer. You see, he had a bad back and he didn't want to lose his medical benefits, so every morning he'd go down the shaft and pretend to work.