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Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips
I can't find it.
- Ignore me, I'm not here. - Stop doing that, please.
I don't pick stuf up, I knock stuf down.
- About stuf. - What stuf?
Stab him, Lester!
He's saying he did eat a piece of that record.
- You are so anal, Howard. - Less of the backchat. Pick up the clip.
One, two, three, four!
There is no way I am going inside there. It's suicide.
Be careful, that's a lethal toxic-tipped harpoon loaded with anti-jazz.
What are they doing? They've only got ten seconds until they go big.
Hm?
- I am quite fast. - You're not Roger Black. You're Vince.
- Howard, head for the brain. - Bit quieter, Naboo.
♪ Kiddy-ba-boo, voody-boo-boo!
Oi, Vince, who's the geography teacher?
- What can I say? I married too young. - Vince?
the blood of Howling Jimmy must've crawled up inside him.
Argh!
Organised stationery means good business.
- My God, this is huge. - Yeah. Now you're getting it, yeah?
That's right.
One more time.
- Your rocking chair's on my foot. - Sorry. I think I know what's happening here.
But don't forget to glitter up those flippers cos aqua bling is so far in.
Stabbity-Dooah!
- Hey, Vince. - Hey, guys. How are you?