The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

— Computer, do something!
— Sure thing, fella. Handing over manual control. Good luck!

I could calculate your chances of survival, but you won't like it.

— Sorry, did you just say you need my brain?
— Yes, to complete the program.
— Okay. You can't have my brain. I'm using it.
— Hardly.

Arthur Dent: — We can talk about normality till the cows come home.
Ford Prefect: — What is normal?
Trillian: — What's home?
Zaphod Beeblebrox: — What are cows?
Arthur Dent: — A proper cup of tea would restore my normality.

— Mr. Dent, have you any idea how much damage this bulldozer would suffer, if I just let it roll straight over you?
— How much?
— None at all.

They can't think, they can't imagine. Most of them can't even spell. They just run things.

Time is an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so.

Life? Don't talk to me about life.

— Marvin, you saved our lives.
— I know. Wretched, isn't it?

I have a million ideas. They all point to certain death.

It's a tough galaxy. If you want to survive out here, you've... gotta know where your towel is.

I think I'm a sofa.

Presidents don't have power. Their job is to draw attention away from it.

— You can trust me.
— Trust a man who won't tell me his name?

— Do you really think the world's going to end?
— Yes.
— Shouldn't we lie down, or put a paper bag over our heads, or something?
— If you like.
— Will it help?
— Not at all.

— So this is it. We're gonna die.
— Yeah, we're gonna die. No, no, what's this?
— What's that? What's this?
— What's this? This is nothing. Yeah, we're gonna die.