Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

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