Girl: "Not tonight Geordi. I have a headache."
Laforge: "Computer, reset date."
Girl: "Will you stop doing that?!"
Laforge: "Sorry, force of habit."
Picard: "Suck in your guts guys, we're Starfleet."
Worf: "Klingon palmistry has its basis in scientific fact. According to this, your lifeline is 37.24 millimetres. You will die on Stardate 56844.9, like a bitch on a Romulan warbird, after having all relevant data on the Enterprise and shuttle transporter systems and subsystems erased from your memory by a close proximity thalaron pulse generated EMP analogue."
Guy on the left: "Ow... Ow... OWW! What are you standing around like a bunch of dorks for? Shoot back... Ow... Ow!!"
"A-humping we will go, a-humping we will go, ee-aye-addio, a-humping we will go."