Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Those days are gone, long forgotten, like my size four underpants.
And I have to travel all the way to the Pennsylvania Dutch country to be reunited with my natural Amish parents.
Can you have a paper route when you're 30?
My skin just kind of comes alive in black.
All the pieces of the puzzle are there.
Dad, if I'm not adopted, could you please explain this to me?
Like you buy everything else with your filthy money.
Our conversations should be limited to stuff like, here's my rent check, sir.
They've grown fond of this charade called Chris Peterson.
Hey, what are we doing standing around gabbing?
I look nice and plain, don't I?
Well, don't you recognize me?
But to be honest, I never had the cheekbones to carry off that cute beard without a mustache look anyway.
No.
What are you saying?
Amish?
The Beatles did do Hey Jude.
Mama, we've, uh, been standing out here staring at each other for 10 minutes.
Besides, they just try to track me down and buy me back.