Bill Robinson: We're all getting funerals - all three of us.
Helen Robinson: Bill, get your own funeral. Timmy and I are going zombie.
Bill Robinson: Now, I know you're not supposed to have a hand gun until you're twelve... but it can come in real handy.
Priest: Head coffin please.
Cindy Bottoms: Hi Timmy. Surprised?
Timmy Robinson: Sort of.
Cindy Bottoms: It's okay. It's sort of cool in a way. And he's a lot nicer.
Timmy Robinson: Do you wanna play catch?
Cindy Bottoms: Sure.
Timmy Robinson: Does, uh, your zombie wanna play? What do you call him anyways?
Cindy Bottoms: I don't know. Right now I'm just calling him 'Daddy.'.
Timmy Robinson: Sure, okay. Come on.
Cindy Bottoms: Come on, Daddy.
Mr. Bottoms: They're not particularly fast, are they?
Bill Robinson: I'd say I'm a pretty darn good father. My father tried to eat me, I don't remember trying to eat Timmy.
Helen Robinson: Bill, just because your father tried to eat you, does that mean we all have to be unhappy... forever?
Mr. Bottoms: Is that blood on your zombie?
Timmy Robinson: It was a nose bleed.
Mr. Bottoms: That's not a fresh zombie, only fresh zombies bleed, son.
Timmy Robinson: I meant my nose.
Mr. Bottoms: How did blood from your nose get onto your zombie?
Timmy Robinson: I wiped it there.
Helen Robinson: You crazy, wonderful zombie.
