Jean Weir (Becky Ann Baker): You know, I ran into Mrs. Patten today at Farmer Jack. And she said that she saw you smoking.
Lindsay: Well she’s crazy. Mom, I can’t believe you. You seriously think I would start smoking?
Harold Weir (Joe Flaherty): You know, I had a friend that used to smoke. You know what he’s doing now? He’s dead!
Lindsay: Daddy, if I started smoking I would tell you.
Mr. Weir: Oh. Good. Now I don’t have to worry.
Mrs. Weir: Alright, kids. HIgh school is for learning but it’s also where you should be learning to socialize. That’s what high school dances are all about.
Lindsay: No they’re not. It’s a chance for popular kids to experiment with sex in their cars.
Mrs. Weir: Lindsay!
Mr. Weir: Hey!
Lindsay: I mean, if that’s what you want me to do then I’d be happy to go.
Mr. Weir: You know, there was a girl in our school, she had premarital sex. You know what she did on graduation day? Died! Of an overdose. Heroin.
Mr. Weir: You know who used to cut class? Jimi Hendrix. You know what happened to him? He died! Choking on his own vomit.
Lindsay: Daddy, I skipped Latin.
Mr. Weir: Oh. Well I can understand why you wouldn’t want to learn about that. It’s only the building block of our language.
Mrs. Weir: Well I’m just glad your Grandmother wasn’t alive to hear about this.
Mr. Weir: You can’t cut corners in life! You know who cut corners? Kennedy! Kennedy cut corners when he was running the Bay of Pigs. A lot of good men lost their lives because of it. You know who else cut corners? Janis Joplin.
Lindsay: Dad! What are you talking about?! You don’t make any sense. I just cut class and guess what? Everybody’s still alive. Just leave me alone!
Mrs. Weir: Hey Lindsay, how’d you like to go buy some new clothes at the mall? Those old jeans are looking pretty ragged.
Lindsay: No thanks, Mom. I like my jeans
Sam: Dad’s the one who could use some pants.
Mr. Weir: Who am I trying to impress? When it’s your house you can wear a tuxedo to breakfast.
Mr. Weir (Joe Flaherty): You know those Sex Pistols? They spit on their audience.
Mrs. Weir: Oh, that’s terrible.
Mr. Weir: Yep, that’s what I want to do. Spend my hard-earned money to be spit on. Now that’s entertainment.
Lindsay: Oh come on, Dad. Every generation is afraid of the music that comes from the next. I’m sure your parents hated Elvis.
Mr. Weir: Elvis didn’t expectorate on his fans.
Sam: No. But he died on the toilet.
Mr. Weir: Well, that’s paradise compared to where those Sex Pistols are gonna end up.
Mr. Weir: Honey, the boy’s fourteen. Huh? He can miss a night of walking around, begging like a tramp. Halloween’s for little kids anyway.
Mrs. Weir: Hey Lindsay, you’re still going to hand out candy with me, aren’t you? Remember how much fun we had last year, looking at all the little kids in their costumes?
Lindsay: Yeah, Mom. I told you I was going to.
Mrs. Weir: Good! ‘Cause we’re going to have a really good time this year. I promise.
Mr. Weir: Sam, what are you doing? You’re too old to go out trick or treating.
Mrs. Weir: Oh, Harold. Stop.
Mr. Weir: Well it’s true. There was this kid in my neighborhood growing up, Scott Byron. He kept on trick or treating until he was well into his 20s. You know where he’s living now? At home! With his ninety-year-old mother. He’s the laughingstock of the community. Never took a wife either.
Mr. Weir: Well. Certainly glad we all decided to celebrate Halloween. Last time I had this much fun I was pinned down in a foxhole by the North Koreans.
Mrs. Weir: Sam, slow down. It’s not a race.
Mr. Weir: What’s the problem?
Mrs. Weir: Well, he usually never eats but just look at him.
Mr. Weir: Oh, he’s fine. Look at him! He could use a little meat on his bones.
Mrs. Weir: I’m just worried he might have worms. Sam, do you think you might have worms?
Mr. Weir: What is it, Sam? Is he going to blow up? That’s a perfectly good piece of veal wasted.
Mr. Weir: She’s hanging with the wrong crowd. They’re lying and cheating and next thing you know she’s Patty Hearst and she’s got a gun to our heads!
Mr. Kowchevski: I have the algebra test that Daniel took. If he can do the first problem, I will not only get down on my hands and knees and beg everyone in this room for forgiveness, but I’ll quit. I will resign. I will never teach again.
Mr. Weir: That’d be a start.
Mr. Weir: I was visiting Mr. Pries at his store today, and he was selling a game that my family and I used to play as a kid. every Friday night. Pit.
Mr. Weir: Pit.
Sam: Sounds like fun.
Mr. Weir: It is. It’s a stock trading game. See, we all yell across the table at each other and try to get the other players to trade stocks with us.
Lindsay: So we all sit around the table and you yell at us?
Sam: You do that to us every night.
Mrs. Weir: Honey, you can not force these kids to spend time with us.
Mr. Weir: Did you know that in some cultures if children shame you, you’re allowed to have them executed. Well I feel shamed.
Mrs. Weir: Harold.
Mr. Weir: Well I’m not swinging an axe, I just want them to play Pit with me. Is that so horrible?
Mr. Weir: Alright, thanks Mike. Oh and good luck with that bomb shelter.
Mr. Weir: You might find it hard to believe, but I did some stupid things when I was young.
Mrs. Weir: Honey. Tell her about Korea.
Mr. Weir: Korea? Well. One day, I went into Seoul on a weekend pass. And went to this bar. And I had a few too many and… I followed a couple of my buddies to the Red Light District.
Mrs. Weir: Your father’s first time wasn’t special. Ad he’s always regretted it.
Mr. Weir: That was the worst five dollars I ever spent. And I wish I could get that five dollars back.
Lindsay: Come on! Please stop.
Mrs. Weir: What your father’s trying to say is, your virginity is a gift.
Mr. Weir: I’m a member of the Rotary, you know. And the masons. And councilman Applebee just last week asked me to run for the school board.
Lindsay: That’s great Dad.
Mr. Weir: I could be the mayor and I wouldn’t get any respect around this house.
Mr. Weir: This? The thumb. Do you think I don’t know what that means. I know, Lindsay. It means, “Hey, stranger, please lock me in your car. Drive me to god-knows-where and murder me.”
Mrs. Weir: My heart is racing, Harold. I don’t think we should be doing this.
Mr. Weir: Well look, Jean, we want to know what’s going on in our daughter’s life don’t we? I mean for all we know she could become a junkie or a hooker.
Mrs. Weir: Harold, she is not going to become a hooker.
Mr. Weir: Everybody’s got parents, Jean. Even hookers.
Mr. Weir: Aha! Birth control pills! Our little daughter with a… sewing kit.
Mr. Weir: I mean what’s it say about Kim Kelly?
Mrs. Weir: Nothing. Just that she thinks Kim Kelly has some….
Mr. Weir: What?
Mrs. Weir: Well, a different word for courage.
Mr. Weir: Huh? Oh! Well does it say anything about drugs? Pot? Acid?
Mrs. Weir: I don’t think so.
Mr. Weir: What does it say?
Mrs. Weir: “I’m sick of living in this claustrophobic suburban world—
Mr. Weir: Oh, get used to it.
Mrs. Weir: “—where everyone is trying to fit in. I feel like I lived in a world of scared robots. Obviously this is terrible, but two of the worst ones are mom and dad.”
Mr. Weir: What? What do that mean?
Mrs. Weir: “They are the most boring, repressed people on the face of the entire earth.”
Mr. Weir: Repressed? I’ll repress her.
Mrs. Weir: They say they love each other but who knows. It’s probably just part of their routine. Anyway, can robots really be in love?” Harold I don’t think we should be reading this.
Mr. Weir: Yeah yeah. Keep reading.
Mrs. Weir: Let’s see. “Their whole life is this monotonous routine. She cooks dinner—practically the same meal every night. He comes home barking at everyone like a fascist dictator, scared his…” Hm.
Mr. Weir: What?
Mrs. Weir: “…scared his penis will fall off if he ever helped clear the table. And she lets him walk all over her. I love them but it’s not the life for me. No thank you.”
Mrs. Weir: Okay, I’ve got something special for us tonight. Ta da!
Mr. Weir: What the hell?
Mrs. Weir: Ah. Harold, they’re Cornish game hens with a plum wine sauce. They’re fantastic.
Mr. Weir: What’d you do, put poison in the bird feeder?
Mr. Weir: I could call the police. Do you know that? I could call the police and report this as grand theft auto. I can send my own daughter to you. You know that?
Lindsay: I’m so sorry, Daddy.
Mr. Weir: You know what? I don’t think I believe anything you say anymore. Why should I? You’re grounded. I can’t even tell you for how long.
Sam: Dad, can I have an Atari for my birthday?
Mr. Weir: An A-what-i?
Mr. Weir: What the heck is that?
Mrs. Weir: That’s one of those expensive video games, isn’t it?
Sam: No. No! It’s not expensive.
Mr. Weir: Well whatever it costs it’s a waste of money. And time. You know, the welfare rolls are full of video game players.
Lindsay: No they’re not.
Mr. Weir: Well they’re gonna be. Trust me.
Mr. Weir: Sam, who’s your favorite Angel?
Sam: I like Bosley.
Mr. Weir: Bosley? Nobody watches this show for Bosley.
Sam: He’s funny.
Mr. Weir: Yeah, well he’s no Kate Jackson I’ll tell you that much.
Mr. Weir: Sure Lindsay. You can see The Who. And you can go see The Stones at Altamont.
Mr. Weir: Alright, fine. Just keep those boys away from your accordion.
Mrs. Weir: Harold, we have to go. Or the Schweibers will be offended. We missed it last year.
Mr. Weir: It’s the same party year after year. It’s smarmy. What kind of doctor invites his patients over to listen to his dental jokes? It’s sick.
Mrs. Weir: Honey, we have to go.
Lindsay: I don’t have to go, do I?
Mr. Weir: I don’t see why you should get out of it. He’s your dentist too.
Lindsay: Fine. I’ll switch dentists.
Mr. Weir: Say, that’s an idea.
Mr. Weir handing the keys over: All right, I’m giving you these now. There’s no way I’m going to spend all night listening to the same old dentist jokes without plenty of anesthesia.
Lindsay: Dad, give me one good reason why a woman can’t be president.
Mr. Weir: We’re talking about three irrational days a month. Now, I would have no problem with the other 27, but we’re talking about the atomic bomb here.
Harold Weir: By the way, that drummer you’re listening to?
Mr. Weir: He’s terrible.
Nick: That’s Neil Peart. He’s the greatest drummer alive.
Mr. Weir: Neil Peart couldn’t drum his way out of a paper bag!
Harold Weir: You know, everyone’s a Democrat until they get a little money. Then they come to their senses.