Blanche: Get away from me, you bloodhounds. I have nothing to say to you. Except this: From now on, when my name appears in print, it had better read "Blanche Devereaux, 39".

Sophia: Bruno Bonofiglio.
Dorothy: Ma! I was asleep!
Sophia: So was I. That's when it came to me. Picture this. Sicily, 1922. The village is in a terrible wine crisis. It's the peak of the wine season. And all our grape stompers are ravaged by an outbreak of athlete's foot. Soon the Chianti has a green hue and tastes like Desenex. They call in Sicily's foremost podiatrist, Bruno Bonofiglio. He's the one who prescribed arch supports for Mussolini.
Dorothy: Must have really helped his lower back when they hung him by his heels.
Sophia: Forget him. I'm talking about Bruno Bonofiglio. I take one look at him, and I have a hunch he's trouble. But nobody believes me. So, what happens? He cures everybody and wine sales skyrocket.
Dorothy: Wait a minute, wait a minute. Ma. Unless I'm missing something, your hunch was wrong.
Sophia: My hunches are never wrong. Now, everyone is living high on the hog and eating rich foods. The next thing you know, there's a gout epidemic. Nobody can stomp grapes. And Bruno makes a killing selling orthopedic sandals.
Dorothy: Don't tell me. He went to America, and changed his name to Dr. Scholl.
Sophia: No. Actually, he developed a foot fetish and suffocated when he shoved his head in a lady's rubber boot.
Dorothy: Ma, don't ever wake me up again.

Dorothy: Listen, Blanche, ruining a man's career for a one night stand is hardly something to make light of.
Blanche: Oh, now, wait a minute. You girls don't believe this. Well, I mean I'm not denying that's me in the photograph, but I am denying that anything happened. I just dropped off his folder.
Dorothy: Then why does it say here that you were in his house for two hours?
Blanche: We were just talking.
Rose: Then why does it say, "The explosion was so great, it shattered windows in the building next door."
Dorothy: Rose, that's an article about an earthquake in Guatemala!

Sophia: Look at this picture of Kessler, Dorothy. There's a secret behind those eyes. Trust my hunch on this one. I'm never wrong.
Dorothy: Oh, come on, Ma. Remember your hunch about your nephew, Angelo? You said one day he'd be Pope.
Sophia: Dorothy, you gotta pay attention. I said one day, he'd sell dope. What do you think he went to Attica for, the volleyball program?

Blanche: [answering phone] Hello. Yes, this is Blanche Devereaux. Yes, that Blanche Devereaux. And no, I did not. Absolutely not. I will tell it to a judge, I will yell it from the highest mountain, I will swear to it on a stack of Bibles. [to Dorothy & Rose] Now, did that sound like a liar?
Dorothy: No. It sounded like Jim and Tammy Faye on Nightline.

Rose: [to a silent Dorothy] I woke you up, didn't I? And I better have a good reason. Well, I do. I got a great idea for Gil's campaign. I'm these making bird feeders with his name on them to send around. And you think that's a dumb idea. And you feel like taking this bird feeder away from me. And smashing it with this hammer. Like this.

Sophia: They caught Gil Kessler having an affair.
Dorothy: Oh, you're kidding. With whom?
Rose: They don't know her name. But look. They hid in the bushes and took this picture of her from behind going into his house.
Dorothy: I don't believe it. Wait a minute, that looks like Blanche's red dress.
Sophia: And those look like Blanche's red shoes.
Dorothy: And aren't they her diamond earrings and gold bracelet?
Rose: That little floozy stole Blanche's clothes.
Dorothy: It's like having Agatha Christie right here in our kitchen.

Blanche: Oh, my God. My backside is spread all across the front page. How could they do that?
Sophia: They probably used a wide-angle lens.
Blanche: If I'd known I was being photographed, I would've turned around and smiled.

Blanche: I don't believe this. He just lied. Dorothy, Rose? Well, don't you girls believe me? Sophia?
Sophia: I believe you, Blanche. Absolutely. [on the phone] Hello? I need a number for People magazine. The department that buys stories about politicians who sleep with sleazy broads. [to Blanche] Don't worry, it's not about you.

Blanche: [answering phone] Hello? Yes, this is Blanche, and how did you get this number? And better yet, why am I even talking to you? I don't like you. Matter of fact, I hate you. You can just tear up my number and then go climb back under your slimy rock with all the rest of your slimy friends. And don't you ever call here again. [hangs up] Dorothy, call Stan.