Dr. Pryor: Here's your scientifically selected career.
Janey: Architect.
Kid: Insurance salesman,
Ralph: Salmon gutter?
Milhouse: Military strongman.
Martin: Systems analyst. Systems analyst.
Dr. Pryor: Systems analyst.
Martin: All right!
Lisa: Homemaker?
Dr. Pryor: Mm-hm. It's like a mommy.
Bart: Police officer? Well, I'll be jiggered.

Cheif Wiggum: Looks like you bought yourself a lottery ticket...to jail!
Lou: He's unconscious, sir.
Chief Wiggum: Ah, they can still hear things.

Miss Hoover: Now put paste on your paper. Ralph, are you eating your paste?
Ralph Wiggum: (Gluestick poking out of his mouth) No, Miss. Hoover.

(Answers phone) Uh, no you've got the wrong number. This is 9-1... 2.

Sideshow Bob: Bart, I must know. How did you untangle my web?
Chief Wiggum: Yeah, Bart, pull us in!
Bart: Well, I'd hate to tell the number one cop in town how to do his job.
Chief Wiggum: No, no, please. It's the only way I'll learn.

If he was going to commit a crime, would he have invited the number one cop in town? Now where did I put my gun? Oh yeah, I set it down when I got a piece of cake.

Chief Wiggum

Ralph: Mr. Luther King had a dream. Dreams are where Elmo and Toy Story had a party, and I went there. Yay, my turn is over.
Principal Skinner: One of your best Ralph.

Mr. Black: Now I must tell you kids Krusty has laryngitis and a bad back so he won't be saying anything or doing anything.
Milhouse: Krusty looks fat.
Lisa: He's really having trouble keeping his balance.
Ralph: He's still funny, but not ha-ha funny.

Barney: What are these axes for?
Chief Wiggum: I dunno, chopping stuff.
Barney: Gotcha. (chops down the Simpson's mailbox)
Chief Wiggum: That's some nice choppin'.

Aw, isn't that cute, a baby driving a car. Oh, look there's a dog driving a bus!

Chief Wiggum

This is Papa Bear. Put out an APB for a male suspect, driving a...car of some sort, heading in the direction of...you know, that place that sells chili. Suspect is hatless. Repeat, hatless.

Chief Wiggum

Clouds are God's sneezes.

The Simpsons Quotes

Larry: What you got riding on this?
Homer: My daughter.
Larry: What a gambler!

Maggie? Oh, you must be sick. Let's see, what's old Dr. Washburn prescibe? Do you have dropsy? The grippe? Scofula? The vapors? Jungle rot? Dandy fever? Poor man's gout? Housemaid's knee? Climatic poopow? The staggers? Dum-dum fever?

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