Gob: And if I'm going to be staying here -
Lucille: Staying here? What, did that Mexican throw you out?
Gob: She's not "that Mexican," Mom. She's my Mexican. And she's Colombian or something. Anyway, it's over.

Lucille: You've got three days.
Gob: Hey ... if I can't find a horny immigrant by then, I don't deserve to stay here.

Michael: I can't believe she got that driver's license renewed.
Gob: She didn't. I dummied her up a new one. Not my best work, though. She wanted to look 48. I nearly airbrushed her into oblivion. Ended up checking "albino" in the form.

Michael: Well you certainly haven't been shopping, all I found in the refrigerator was a dead dove in a bag...
Gob: You didn't eat that did you? 'Cause I only got a couple of days left to return it.

Gob: [about the fake cops] These guys are pros, Michael. They're gonna push the tension till the last possible moment before they strip.
Michael: They're not going to strip, are they?
Gob: I told them not to, but I can't promise that their instincts won't kick in.

GOB: They're pills that create a sort of temporary forgettingness. So if somebody finds out how you do a trick, you just give 'em one of these, and they forget the whole thing. It's a mainstay of the magician's toolkit, like how clowns always have a rag soaked in ether.

George Michael: Uncle Gob, was Aunt Lindsay ever pregnant?
Gob: Yeah, sure, dozens of times.

Gob: Where am I? Am I in two-thirds of a hospital room?

Gob: And now you love the ten commandments. And yet you're the one who so conveniently forgot "Thou shalt protect thy father and honor no one above him unless it be-ith me, thy sweet Lord."
Michael: I'm not sure that one made it down the mountain, Gob.

Michael: I gave you permission to use the yacht. You blew it up.
Gob: Yeah, well, if you give someone permission to use a tissue, you can't be upset if they blow their nose. Right? I mean ...

Lindsay: Is that a shot at me? Because, for your information, I have a job.
Michael: Really? What kind of job?
Lindsay: Beads.
Gob: Bees?!
Lindsay: Beads!
Gob: Beads?!
Michael: Gob's not on board.

Gob: The zero hour, Michael. It's the end of the line. I'm the firstborn. Sick of playing second fiddle. Always third in line for everything. Tired of finishing fourth. Being the fifth wheel. [thinks for a moment] There are six things I'm mad about, and I'm taking over.