Grim Reaper: You are all dead. I am Death.
Host: Well, that's cast rather a gloom over the evening, hasn't it?
Maitre d': Good evening sir and how are we today?
Mr. Creosote: Better.
Maitre d': Better?
Mr. Creosote: Better get a bucket. I'm gonna throw up.
Zulu War Soldier: Here is better than home, eh, sir? I mean, at home if you kill someone they arrest you, here they'll give you a gun and show you what to do, sir. I mean, I killed fifteen of those buggers. Now, at home they'd hang me, here they'll give me a fucking medal, sir."
Grim Reaper: Shut up, you American. You Americans, all you do is talk, and talk, and say "let me tell you something" and "I just wanna say." Well, you're dead now, so shut up.
Father: The mill's closed. There's no more work. We're destitute.
Father: I'm afraid I have no choice but to sell you all for scientific experiments.
Hospital Administrator: And what are you doing this morning?
Obstetrician: It's a birth.
Hospital Administrator: Ah. And what sort of thing is that?
Dr. Spenser: Well, that's where we take a new baby out of a lady's tummy.
Hospital Administrator: Wonderful what we can do nowdays.
Maitre d': And finally, a wafer thin mint.
Grim Reaper: Englishmen, you're all so fucking pompous. None of you have got any balls.
Paitent: What do I do?
Dr. Spenser: Nothing, dear! You're not qualified.
New Mother: Is it a boy or a girl?
Obstretrician: I think it's a bit early to start imposing roles on it, don't you?
Humphrey: Oh, no, do share your little joke with the rest of the class.