Tom Servo: This isn't shot day-for-night. It's more like 4:30-for-5:15.
Mike: When science didn't have to have any specific purpose.
Tom Servo: Ah, they're going 65, so they'll be there in 3 billion years.
Dr. Forrester: I'm feeling particularly evil because today's experiment is a stinky cinematic suppository called "This Island Earth." You may all bow down before me after this stinkburger.
Tom Servo: Captain's log: a bunch of our ship fell off, and, nobody likes me.
Joe Wilson: If there is any reason around here.
Tom Servo: What with all the shenanigans and goings-on.
Crow T. Robot: Puppet wranglers? There weren't any puppets in this movie.
Tom Servo: This Island Earth can be yours if the price is right.
Crow T. Robot: C'mon! Give Uncle Scrotor a hug.
Mike: Yeah, let's slip awayy under cover of afternoon in the biggetst car in the county.
Crow T. Robot: They're forcing him to visit Branson, Missouri.
Tom Servo: Well what kind of shit-hole planet is this?
Joe Wilson: You're too darned smart.
Tom Servo: And handsome.
Cal Meecham: I may just be the dumbest man who ever lived.
Mike: No argument here.
Crow T. Robot: Hey! Who sneezed on the credits?
Crow T. Robot: Shall I compare thee to a summers daaaaaaaa.
Carl Meecham: Relocation? To where?
The Monitor: To your Earth.
Exeter: A peaceful relocation.
Crow T. Robot: After the genocide, of course.
Exeter: I beg your pardon, Mr. Wilson, your camera will pick up nothing but black fog.
Tom Servo: Oh, it's a Goldstar.
Mike: Joe, I'm in one of these boxes, find me.
Joe: You know what my kids would say?
Crow T. Robot: YOU'RE not MY real father?