Blanche: Oh, I guess there must be a reason why women have babies when they're 20ish instead of 40ish.
Dorothy: Blanche, the only thing in this room that's 40ish is your hairdo.

Rose: Sophia, I can't believe you're doing this. You know, this reminds me of the story of Gunilla Ulf's daughter, St. Olaf's very own angel of death.
Dorothy: Tell it, Rose. Tell it.
Rose: Really? All the way through?
Dorothy: All the way through. But please try to make the end come as close to the beginning as possible.
Rose: Well, Gunilla Ulf's daughter was a nurse at Cedars of St. Olaf Hospital. One night she was taking care of Sven Bjornsson, and he asked her if she would get him some more mouth moisteners and then kill him. Gunilla brought the mouth moisteners right away, but the killing thing seemed to go against everything she'd been taught.
Dorothy: You're doing beautifully, Rose.
Rose: He begged and he begged, and by her coffee break, she couldn't stand it anymore, so she pulled the plug and he died. Well, she was racked with guilt that night. Not only had she parked her car in a doctor's spot, but she was never sure whether Sven's pleading was the pain talking, or the medication talking, or the guy in the next bed talking! You see, the guy in the next bed was Ingmar von Bergen, St. Olaf's meanest ventriloquist.
Dorothy: Rose, we are going somewhere with this, aren't we? I mean, if not, I'm gonna cut out your tongue.
Rose: Yes! Sven came back to haunt Gunilla. Since then, every Tuesday night at ten. Nine, Central time. She hears noises. Some say it's the wind, but some say it's Sven's voice whispering back from the other side, saying, "Turn around quick. His lips are moving."

Blanche: When my time comes, I sure want somebody to put me out of my misery if something tragic happens. Like I get a fatal illness, or I've lost my looks.
Dorothy: Tell us when, Blanche.