Waitress: Why would we be at war? There's no big crisis anywhere.
Mike: Not that we know about! There's never a good enough reason why.
Transvestite: Come on! Nobody believes this, do they? I mean if I said it, nobody would.
Harry Washello: I was just wondering if you know if anyone here had a son named Chip.
Stewardess: I had an uncle named Chett.
Landa: You must know some pilots, any charter lines?
Stewardess: Well actually, it's my sister's outfit.
Harry Washello: Does she always sleep this deep?
Lucy Peters: She took a Valium.
Charlotta: Is this your blood... or mine?
Landa: Mike, I want you and Susie to make a list for me. People who we might want to bring along. Scientists, leaders, great minds. I want it in five minutes, okay?
Mike: Where do you go so the radiation won't get us?
Waitress: What about Mexico? Or Hawaii! Let's go to Hawaii.
Landa: No tropics.
Mike: Ocean clouds, rain, forget it. Got to be a desert, right? Like the Sahara or the Gobi, fuck the Gobi.
Landa: We're going to Antarctica if it's true.
Mike: Wait a minute, you said desert.
Landa: There's a valley there with zero rainfall, plenty of fresh water in the snow for generations if need be.
Stewardess: I hope this isn't happening, I've had real awful dreams about atom bombs.
Harry Washello: I know how this sounds, but I answered the phone out there and the guy on the other end he was very, very frantic. He thought I was his dad for a minute, I think he just had the wrong area code.
Fred the Cook: Yeah, so what?
Harry Washello: So he was calling from a missile silo! He said that they were locked in, 50 minutes and counting, to shoot off their nuclear wad. We would be getting it back in an hour and 10. I mean he meant that we're at war! Nuclear war.
Lucy Peters: Wait a minute! You just tell me what the hell's going on.
Harry Washello: Mrs. Peters, in a half-an-hour there's going to be a full-on nuclear attack. The missiles are on their way now. L.A.'s going to be a desert again very soon.
Julie Peters: People are gonna help each other, aren't they? Rebuilding things?
Harry Washello: I think it's the insects' turn.
