Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

You want to wrestle.

No, no, it was crawdad.

You want I should split it up too?

You are discharged!

Swimming pooms, movie stars.

You have your end first.

Gid, where's the axe?

Y'all come back now, hear?

You reckon we could turn him into a cat?

Yes, ma'am, but she ain't too happy about it right now.

You're the living picture of your mom.

Now, my secretary will be over right away to help you with the hiring of servants or whatever problems you may have.

I reckon every man liked to have a son, and you was my only young'un.

I'm Jane Hathaway, Executive Secretary to Mr. Drysdale, and you, I take it, are a domestic of some sort, cleaning your house maid.

Someone who does the driving.

How you know we got chicken?

This the big, dainty chicken you ever did see?

Probably just a stuffed up flu.

You ain't neither.

What's all the smoke?

I've hit this with everything I could lay a hand to.

And over there's where I seen that great big pink chicken.

Well, no matter.

Well, I hope it ain't as tough as it ain't.

I was referring to the game of cricket.

I ain't even got a stovepipe.