Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Bitch-ass bitch.
He doesn't live anywhere. His friends put him up wherever he goes.
Sneakers are the footwear of my corporate oppressor, Isabelle.
You're making a big mistake, Wilson. Big.
This is the part where I thought you'd laugh...
I'm sorry.
Though I might hyphenate.
Okay. Next lesson.
-But Esteban-- -Write him a note.
Bye.
Uncle Yitzhak's lost fortune which fell miraculously into your hands.
She gets me. We're in sync.
Happens again, we're gonna have a serious problem.
What really hurts though...
That means, "Pay up, motherfucker, or I crack your head with an ice pick."
This just isn't how I pictured this going down.
If that fat-ass costs us our security deposit....
Of course, then I threw her off the roof and she went splat.
-Right. -Right.
No, soon I'll be a new mommy.
Trying to get this damn tan off.
I have nowhere to go.
Hard feelings? About what?
Fuck George Hamilton.
Maybe if you wore sneakers to work instead of changing into them there....
Say there's no hard feelings.
So is this what you want?
...and I hoped that maybe by now you'd understand...
Get out of my store. I've had enough of you driving customers away...
Wait. Wait. God.
What the fuck was that?
-Mr. and Mrs. Bogart. -Yes.
He pulled a gun on me. Just messing around, but still.
Oh, there you are.
I gotta say, it kind of sucks that you've been avoiding me...
This crap and General Lee.