It’s what you want. It’s what every white boy off the lake wants.
Man, that’s a real shame when folks be throwin’ away a perfectly good white boy like that.
How do we know he’s NOT Mel Torme?
Maestro, this is the talented man I was telling you about.
As I went through the salon, I played a game with myself. This man had written his first concerto at the age of four; his first symphony at seven; a full-scale opera at twelve! Did it show? Is talent like that written on the face?
He’s not fit for dog meat.
Thank you for pointing that out, my dear.
Well, you’re very welcome. I’ll let myself out.
If I’m not back in five minutes, just wait longer.
I’ll be right bat.
For future reference, right-handed men don’t hold it with their left. Just one of those things.
These are a few of my favorite things.
Go, get the butter.
And two hard-boiled eggs.
I can eat fifty eggs.
You want fifty-five?
When I was a lad, I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large. And now that I’m grown, I eat five dozen eggs, so I’m roughly the size of a barge!
Aye, and if my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a wagon.
She’s picked up a bad case of the respectabilities. And in just a few days from now, that poor woman’s going to be burnin’ up in a fever of virtue. And then LOOK OUT.
How about a little fire, Scarecrow?