Allyson in Bureaucracy:

But you know how it is, the tribe wants to beat the stupid person to death lest it procreate and make dozens of stupid people and then the tribe is inundated with the stupid, and so people have to leave the tribe in the middle of the night while the stupid people get all the really cool huts to themselves. But then the stupid people can't keep the fire going, because they're so fucking stupid, and eventually they freeze to death, and the camp becomes a wasteland.

Then the archaeologists come and see the broken clay pots of the once mighty civilization and theorize that an outbreak of measels killed everyone off, but really, it's just that the stupid people took over, and the smart people left to go invent the wheel, someplace else.

ita, beat me to it.

ita, in Natter:

I will make them all my bitch. Not my bitches -- I'm going to disrespect their individuality sufficient that I'm going to conflate them, and they're going to thank me for it and beg for further reduction.

Allyson, in Firefly:

It's the Naked Guy at the Gay Pride Parade Theory.

I've been to many Gay Pride parades, and mostly, the people marching are well-dressed, some carrying banners for local businesses, moms and dads with strollers.

It'll be a beautiful, perfect, lurvely day and you'll think to yourself, "Well, this is sweet PR, not a bunch of leering child molesting freaks in assless leather pants kidnapping straight passerby to commit acts of rape and whatnot, who can argue with this?"

Sure enough, on the evening news, the only coverage will be of the sole naked man with a pink triangle painted on his right asscheek, and will be captioned, "Gay Pride March"

You'll see no cute babies in strollers, no business-suited GQ looking members of the freaking Local Business Association. You'll just see the camera following the naked guy.

One ass sends a bushell of fucking apples, UPN gets evacuated, and all else is lost. Just ONE person can fuck it all up. It's the Naked Guy at the Gay Pride Parade.

Daniel C. Jensen:

To corrupt Voltaire: I don't always agree with you, but dammit, do you have to make it so blasted hard to defend you?

From Natter:

scrappy: I don't want anyone's skins any thicker. Not by so much as a molecule.

Aimee: Please God let my hips hear scrappy's demand

Narrator:

I am a Frisbeetarian. When I die my soul will go up on the roof and no one will be able to get it down.

Jesse in Natter:

OK, so I finally took that personality disorder test, and everything was low except Histrionic, which was high, and Narcissistic, which was moderate. WTF?!?!? What are they, fucking INSANE?!?! They must have made the test just so I'd get those results!!

And billytea, who gets into COMM for helping me "get it":

Was there a category for 'compulsive need to display irony'?

Cindy : Whispers to Aragorn, "Darling, I think we're alone. Finally. Let me see you release your sword."

Aimée: Bursts in on Cindy and Aragorn, having eavesdropped....

You think you're alone now?
There doesn't seem to be any elf around!
You think you're alone now?
The stomping of the Nazgul is the only sound!

Bursts back out...

Cindy: "Aragorn, my darling, did you hear a mouse? I couldn't see anything on accounta the big, honkin' sword in front of me."

Aimée: It wasn't a mouse! It was Tommy James & The Shondells.

Min, contemplating the vagaries of the postal service in Good Riddance:

Australia Post felt it necessary to open and inspect it, which I think is fairly fitting for Buffista parcels. Then they played football with it, taught it how to swim, and threw it down a chimney, if the rather bedraggled exterior is to be believed.