Lisa: I can't think of a better place to spend a balmy summer's night than the old ball yard. There's just the green grass of the outfield, the crushed brick of the infield, and the white chalk lines that divide the man from the little boy.
Homer: (chuckles) Lisa, honey. You're forgetting the beer. It comes in 72-ounce tubs here.
Marge: I hope you'll space out the tubs this year, Homer.
Homer: What are you getting at?
Marge: Well, last year you got a little rambunctious and mooned the poor umpire.
Homer: Marge, this ticket doesn't just give me a seat. It also gives me the right... no, the duty... to make a complete ass of myself.