Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

I ain't even got a stovepipe.

You ain't neither.

You have your end first.

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

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

How you know we got chicken?

Someone who does the driving.

You reckon we could turn him into a cat?

Swimming pooms, movie stars.

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

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

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

You want to wrestle.

Probably just a stuffed up flu.

I was referring to the game of cricket.

Y'all come back now, hear?

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

You are discharged!

This the big, dainty chicken you ever did see?

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

You want I should split it up too?

Well, no matter.

No, no, it was crawdad.

You're the living picture of your mom.

Gid, where's the axe?

What's all the smoke?