Rimmer: May I remind you of Space Corps Directive 34124?
Kryten: 34124? "No officer with false teeth should attempt oral sex in zero-gravity"?
Rimmer: Step up to red alert.
Kryten: Sir, are you absolutely sure? It does mean changing the bulb.
Rimmer: There's always some excuse, isn't there?
Rimmer: Open communication channels, Lister. Broadcast on all known frequencies and in all known languages, including Welsh.
Rimmer: You have a connoisseur chip?
Kryten: Just because I look like Herman Munster's stuntman doesn't mean to say I can't appreciate art.
The Cat: Hey, you think I'll buy anything you say, dontcha? Well wrong, buddy! Now get outta here, I gotta keep my eyes skinned for that asteroid shaped like a dancin' moose you told me about yesterday.
Rimmer: [pretending to be interested in art to impress Legion] Now, this 3-demensional sculpture in particular is quite exquisite. Its simplicity, its bold, stark lines. Pray, what do you call it?
Legion: The light switch.
Rimmer: The light switch?
Rimmer: I couldn't buy it, then?
Legion: Not really. I need it to turn the lights on and off.
Kryten: Sir? May I recommend I load myself into the reverse-thrust tubes and you use my body as decoy-fodder? This will, of course leave me splattered across deep space and unable to complete today's laundry, for which I apologize in advance.
Rimmer: Kryten, stop your blathering and get in the damn tube.
Lister: Kryten, sit down. I'm not doing me own smeggin' ironing.
[Lister is flicking through magazine]
[he suddenly grimaces]
Kryten: Is something wrong, sir?
Lister: [annoyed] Yes, there is actually. Someone's filled in this "Have You Got A Good Memory?" quiz.
Kryten: But that was you, sir, last week. Don't you remember?
The Cat: What the hell is all this down my chair? Peanuts?
Lister: No, I've been trimming my veruccas.
The Cat: You have personal habits that would make a monkey blush.
Lister: You really think I'm that psychotically disgusting, don't you? They're peanuts, OK?
The Cat: Real peanuts?
The Cat: [eats the peanuts] Where'd you get them?
Lister: I got them a couple of months back. I found them in the dead Captain's old donkey jacket.
[The Cat feels sick]
Lister: Don't look at me like that. You enjoyed that Mint Imperial, didn't you?
The Cat: [nods] Where did you get that?
Lister: He was sucking that when he got shot. I had to prise his jaws open with a car jack.
Rimmer: 10 o'clock changeover. Anything to report?
Kryten: We're still lagging behind Red Dwarf, sir. Almost 24 hours behind now. Other than that, it's been a moderately quiet shift. Except for one small shock a couple of hours ago, when we noticed an alien invasion fleet off the starboard bow. Thankfully, it turned out to be Mr Lister's old sneezes that had congealed onto the radar screen.
Rimmer: How are we fuel wise?
Kryten: Unchanged for today, sir. However the supply situation grows increasingly bleak. We've recycled the water so often it's beginning to taste like Dutch lager.
Rimmer: We're OK for food though, aren't we?
Kryten: Confidentially sir, no. We've no meat, no pulses and hardly any grain. Worse than that, the only Liquorice Allsorts left are those little black twisty ones that everybody hates. If that weren't bad enough, space weevils have eaten the last of the corn supply.
Rimmer: So what's in the grill?
Kryten: Space weevil.
[Kryten brings out the cooked weevil]
Rimmer: You can't serve space weevil, Kryten. I mean, not even Lister with his single remaining taste bud will knowingly sit down and eat insectiod vermin. Well, let's face it, with him it's practically cannibalism.
Kryten: But it's incredibly nutritious, sir. I mean, after all, it is corn fed.
The Cat: [faced with the ship being destroyed] We're deader than tank tops!
Kryten: Was your room like everyone else's? Perfect in every detail?
Rimmer: Impeccable! Right down to the overstarched pyjamas and nocturnal boxing gloves. What about you?
Kryten: Filthy walls, mud streaked floors, mop and bucket -I was in hog's heaven, Sir!
Kryten: But this is insane. Hurting us is hurting yourself. Our pain is your pain.
Legion: Kryten, you forget. Not only do I possess your combined intellects and memories, I also share the sum of your malice and rage and anger, magnified many times. I'm capable of quite insanely irrational behaviour. Watch.
[Legion stabs himself in the hand. The others all feel pain in their hands]
Legion: The next hint of insurrection, and the scalpel ends up...
[he points it at his groin]
Kryten: Legion, that kind of tough talk doesn't scare us.