Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Come on, Bob. It's no time for a joke.
Lost inside all them plans you got.
♪ Two pairs of pants and a mohair vest ♪
Lone Wolf, Nashville Kid, Nadine...
It's our only chance of losing the scent of the dogs.
Well, we got about 12 below the big red line.
And you, my friend, Jack? Where do you go?
Ta! Tum! Ta!
Jack and Zack, my friends. I cannot swim!
Okay, Rich.
I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know it was gonna be like that, man.
Grazie, grazie.
Yeah.
these word I don't know.
Just look in the window.
I scream-a, you scream-a, we all scream-a for ice cream-a.
Jesus, he walked right in there like an idiot.
Get in there, huh?
Uh, what the hell's goin' on here, Bob?
Okay. Hey, Bob, we'll be right here.
- Don't you got just five minutes to talk? - No, I don't.
- Your ugly face. - He's clean.
♪ A flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass ♪
Come on, Bob. Why'd you kill a man?
Man, I am not just like you, whatever you say.
♪ For a while ♪
so he gave me like a present.
Do you understand?
And there's gonna be beautiful girls in there - four of 'em -
Yes.
Or want me.
Well, which way now, Jack?
Well, I ain't going to sleep around here, man.
- Ow. - Well, you know, Jack, how that goes.
Hey.
We got him right here in the studio with us.
- Well, I guess this is it. - Yeah.
like you were... Bebe Rebozo or something.
♪ This is the time ♪
Yeah, sure, man.
Hey, cut it out.
♪ I guess daisies will have to do ♪
- Not the shoes. - No?
Shit.
- Of course. - Nothing.
And there's gonna be music playin'.
- I just want to come up and talk to you, Jack. - Uh-huh.
Yeah, congratulations.
Well, it's a Tuesday night. Gimme a call down here at the station.
And believe me, I could get a million guys to do this for me.
- I scream, you scream - - All right. Put a lid on it.
And then the car's gonna start up...
I scream-a, you scream-a, we all scream-a for ice cream-a.
Fuck you Fuck you
Sit down, please. Sit down here, Jack, Zack.
out to you, Laurette.
I doubt that very much.
Bob...
- All right. Check you out later. - All right, Jack.
Walt Whitman.
Do you have some fire?
All right, I'll go look at your martian goddess.
Homicidal son of a bitch says he's Italian.
- Let's hide over here. - Yeah.
Shit.
An hour's work for a whole lot of scratch.
The eyes of the ra" - Ta!
Just leave me alone, all right?
Well, I don't know which way to go now.
- Oh, yeah? - Yeah.