- Doorman: [as a cow bursts from the building out into the street followed by a lasso swinging platypus] Three more years till the pension kicks in, then I am SO outta here!
- Zombie 1: Brains!
- Zombie 2: Spleen!
- Zombie 1: Pancreas... es!
- Jared: I expected this from your kind, Michael - football players, I mean - but, Kristen, we were both moody outcasts. We... we LOVED each other.
- Carl: [describing Doofenshmirtz' unusual method for sending a message] He wrote a letter by hand, then put it in an envelope and sent it through the regular mail, with a stamp and everything! Who does that?
- Dr. Doofenshmirtz: Yeah, I had to place myself in restraints. There's a perfectly good explanation, though. It all started a couple of days ago when I declared war on grass. It's-it's not important WHY, exactly. L-let's just say grass got on my bad side. Grass and me, we're on the outs, big time, so I got myself a cow - the natural predator of grass. It was slow going. What I needed was a cow that was motivated not by hunger but by a powerful hatred of grass, like... like my own burning antipathy, so I invented the Mind-Transfer-inator to give that cow a piece of my mind. And, as it turns out, cow brain... not a lot of room in there for new ideas.