Rimmer: [While Lister is examining his 19th century toy soldiers] Please be careful with those, they're antiques! How's General Dumuoriez going to look with goat vindaloo all over his tunic?
Lister: It'll make him look more realistic, it'll look like he's got dysentery.

Rimmer: [while Lister is sorting through the mail] You'll send away for every bit of tat, just so you'll have some mail to open.
Lister: Me... Me... Me...
Rimmer: "Please rush me my portable walrus polishing kit! Four super brushes for cleaning even the trickiest of sea-bound mammals! Yes, I am over 18, although my IQ isn't."
Lister: Smeg! Outland Revenue!
Rimmer: [sarcastically] Oh, oh, oh, oh! Outland Revenue!
Lister: 8500!
Rimmer: 8500? That's a lot of tax, isn't it, Listy? How on Titan are you going to pay for that?
Lister: I'm not. It's yours.
Rimmer: What? This is wrong! This is dead wrong!
Lister: Relax, it doesn't matter now. Not gonna catch you now, are they?
Rimmer: What? Just because we're three million years into deep space and the human species is extinct? That means nothing to these people. They'll find us.

Rimmer: At least he gets 24 hours notice, that's more than most of us get. Most of us get "Mind that bus!" "What bus?" "Splat!"

Rimmer: Can you tell me what this is?
Mirror Cat: (smells it) It's an alkali.
Rimmer: Oh yes, what's it called?
Mirror Cat: Cesiumfrancolithicmyxialobidiumrixidixidoxidexidroxhide. You look surprised?
Rimmer: I never thought I'd ever hear you say that. Can you write it down for me?
Mirror Cat: Certainly. (To Mirror Kochanski) Could I have an extremely long piece of paper, my dear?
Back to Earth

Rimmer: David, do you have anything you want to bring to this forum?
Lister: Well yes, I have actually, Arnold. Why don't we go down to the ammunition stores, get a nuclear warhead and then strap one to my head! I'll nut the smegger to oblivion!

Rimmer: Do you think it's because the subspace conduits have locked with the transponder calibrations and caused a major tachyon surge that has overloaded the time matrix?
Kryten: Ah, no, sir. I've just been jabbing it too hard.

Rimmer: Erm, I think we're losing sight of the real issue here, which is: what are we gonna call ourselves? Erm, and I think it comes down to a choice between "The League Against Salivating Monsters" or my own personal preference, which is "The Committee for the Liberation and Integration of Terrifying Organisms and their Rehabilitation Into Society." Erm, one drawback with that: the abbreviation is "CLITORIS."

Rimmer: Have you ever been in dissection class held up a frog by its head? You know the way its belly sort of sticks out above its spindly little legs? Well, that's the picture I see when you get down from the bunk in the morning.

Rimmer: He told me that in a previous incarnation I was Alexander the Great's chief eunuch.
Lister: You know what? I believe you.
Rimmer: To have lived a life alongside one of the greatest commanders of all time! No wonder the military's in my blood!
Lister: No wonder you're such a good singer!

Rimmer: I don't loathe myself. What is there one could possibly loathe about me?
Kryten: Would you like the list, sir?
Rimmer: What list?
Kryten: Well, there was the fact you were despised by your parents for failing to achieve their standards. The fact your three brothers were all such high-flyers in the Space Corps and you ended up servicing chicken soup machines. There's your inability to form long-term relationships with anyone, your cowardliness, your lack of charm, honour or grace and the awful knowledge that throughout your entire life nobody has ever truly liked you because you are so fundamentally unlikeable.
Rimmer: Oh, that.
Kryten: Please don't interrupt, sir, I'm only half-way through my list.

Rimmer: I used to be in the Samaritans.
Lister: I know. For one morning.
Rimmer: I couldn't take any more.
Lister: I don't blame you. You spoke to five people and they all committed suicide. I wouldn't mind, but one was a wrong number! He only phoned up for the cricket scores!
Rimmer: Well, it's not my fault everyone chose that day to jump out of buildings! It made the papers, you know. "Lemming Sunday," they called it.

Rimmer: I want a triple fried egg sandwich...
Lister: With chili sauce and chutney!
Holly: You what?
Lister: It's a state-of-the-art sarnie!
Holly: It's the state of the floor I'm worried about.

Rimmer: Imagine getting your golf ball stuck in Lister's buttock crevice. You'd need more than a niblick to get that out.
Lister: Are you saying I've got a big bum?
Rimmer: Big? It's like two badly parked Volkswagens.

Rimmer: It can't have gone unnoticed that morale is at an all-time low. We've lost all trace of Red Dwarf and supplies are low. So I have decided to appoint myself morale officer and set myself the task of raising morale all round. Now I thought it would productive if we all met once a week and had a coffee or a beer -- whatever's your poison -- and get any troubles we may have off our chests. Any objections? [the others mutter agreement.] Well, as it's week one, why don't I start? You know what it is about Lister that really makes me want to puke? That really makes me want to stab him in both eyes with an icepick? Everything, that's what. Especially his godawful chirpy gerbil-faced optimism. And as for the Cat -- what an unbelievable git. And Kryten -- if he doesn't change pronto, I swear I'll attach jump leads to his nipple nuts and fry him like a Cajun catfish. Well, that's cleared the air. I don't know about you, but I certainly feel better. Thank for your contributions gentlemen. See you at next week's morale meeting. Marvellous. [exits]
Lister: Good meeting.

Rimmer: It's changing colour!
Lister: What colour?
Rimmer: It is! It's changing colour!
Lister: What colour!?
Rimmer: I's blue for not pregnant, right?
Lister: Yes!
Rimmer: Good news Listy, excellent news!
Lister: Oh, thank god!
Rimmer: I'm going to be an uncle!
Series III