Monday, 7-23-07
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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