… Spock … Help me … Spock …
Oh man, no death by snu snu?
The key word in your entire peroration, Mister Spock, was, death.
They make love at the drop of a hat.
ANY hat.
I am going to kill him with my bare hands. I am going to grab him by the throat and rip out his esophagus…!
I do not expect you to understand. You are a Romulan.
Captain, whoever he is, he sure talks gloomy.
Our perimeter sensors are picking up subspace oscillations… what the hell does that mean…?
It’s almost a gibberish.
We’re dead, Geordi.
O’Brien: All right, just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Nog: Chief, I can’t operate under those kinds of restrictions.
Includle-ing the kiddle-lies?
Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah…
After what happened in Quark’s, I don’t think you have to worry about an overcrowded social schedule.
My oath of celibacy is on record, Captain.
He’s as tightlipped about it as an Aldebaran Shellmouth. No use to ask him, Jim. He won’t talk.
Root beer… this is the end of Ferengi civilization…
Quark: You see? We’re nothing like you. We’re better. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lock to pick.
My friend is obviously Chinese. I see you’ve noticed the ears. They’re actually easy to explain… He caught his head in a mechanical… rice picker.
I sense great joy! And gratitude. Joy. And gratitude.