Sophia: Dorothy, let me tell you a story. Picture it. Sicily, 1922. A young military officer stationed far from home. He wanders the streets seeking a friendly face and a glass of Chianti. Finally, he happens into a dusty little cafe where he finds both. The man laughs for the first time in months. And finds inspiration in a beautiful peasant girl, wise beyond her years. When the cafe is closed, she takes him home with her. Three glorious days, they make love and drink wine. He returns to his command prepared to lead his people through whatever battles need to be fought. Dorothy, that young peasant girl was me. And that young man was Winston Churchill.
Dorothy: Ma, you made that whole thing up. Now what is your point?
Sophia: That I made it up. It was a little lie that gave me a lot of pleasure. If Rose is happy, and there was no harm done, let her have that.

Sophia: Reminds me of the place I met Charles de Gaulle. We were lovers, you know.
Raymond: Really?
Dorothy: Ma, that's a lie.
Sophia: Who asked you?
Sophia: Picture it: Sicily, 1921. A beautiful young peasant girl saves her lira and takes a trip to Paris, the city of lights, also the only place a guy can wear a cape without getting a lot of funny looks. She wanders into a restaurant and ends up sharing a table with a dashing young Frenchman. They drink, they talk, they burn a cork and draw mustaches on each other.
Raymond: What?
Sophia: Just wanted to see if you were listening. Anyway, the next thing she knows, it's hours later, the place is empty, and the Frenchman's got his schnoz down her blouse. This begins a beautiful love affair. Kids, I was that peasant girl, and the schnoz was Charles the Mole.
Raymond: Charles the Mole?
Sophia: Yeah, Charles the Mole. He was the wheel man for Louie the Ice Pick.
Dorothy: Ma, you said Charles de Gaulle.
Sophia: Yeah, right! I slept with Charles de Gaulle. I could've been the first lady of France, but I married your father instead. A man who cleans his toenails with a shrimp fork.

Rose: We may not agree with the fishermen, but we want this demonstration to be peaceful. In the tradition of you know, the short, bald Indian fellow with the glasses and the diaper. You know, the one who didn't eat and won an Oscar.

Rose: Oh, isn't this exciting? Taking part in a protest. Standing up as free Americans and exercising our right to say: "We're mad as hell and we're not gonna take it anymore!"
Blanche: I'm out of spit. Can I go now?
Rose: Twenty envelopes and you're ready to quit? Blanche, we joined the Friends of Sea Mammals for a reason.
You are so unmotivated.
Blanche: Well, when I joined this Mammals with Blowholes thing, I didn't expect to be carrying picket signs on some grungy dock. I was hoping more for a fundraiser cocktail party with Chinese lanterns and Portuguese, no, Hispanic waiters in tight black pants. And we hire a band to play fish songs in pirate suits with muscles bulging.
Rose: Your mouth is watering now, Blanche. Keep licking.

Rose: All creatures must learn to coexist. Back where I come from, they do. That's why the brown bear and the field mouse can share their lives and live in harmony. 'Course, they can't mate, or the mice would explode. Well, you know what I mean.
Dorothy: I think Rose needs to work on her metaphors.