Monday, 7-23-07

5

Clem: Whussat yew got thar?

Lem: (quickly hiding object in his hand behind his back) Nuth’n.

Clem:  Uh huh.

Lem: Ah ain’t got yore sooper-secret faish’n loor.

Clem: (knowing smirk) Raht.

Lem: An’ Ah wun’t trine ta ‘verse injuneer ‘er so’s Ah kin git mah own patent own ‘er...

Clem: Mmm-kay.

Lem: ... so’s Ah kin git rich ‘n’ quit workin’. Honest, Ah wun’t! Ow!

Clem: (false concern) Whut’s wrong, dear cuzzin?

Lem: Thank one ‘em hooks is stuck in mah fanger.

Clem: One ‘em hooks fum ‘at loor whut ain’t in yore hand ‘hind yore back?

Lem: (grateful to be understood) Uh huh. Raht. Zackly.

Clem: (shakes head, walks away, muttering something unintelligible)

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