— Does that mean you play that very fast music... jazz?
— Yeah. Real Hot.
— I guess some like it hot. I personally prefer classical music.
— You will not talk me into...
— Extra! Extra! Seven slaughtered in North Side garage! Fear of bloody aftermath! Extra! Extra!
— You talked me into it. Let's go.
— Like fallin' into a tub of butter.
— Watch it, Daphne.
— When I was a kid, Joe, I dreamed I was locked up overnight in a pastry shop. And there was goodies all around. Jelly rolls, mocha eclairs and Boston cream pie and cherry tarts...
— Listen to me: no butter, no pastry. We're on a diet.
— Jerry boy, why paint everyzhing black? Suppose you got hit by a truck? Suppose the stock market crashes? Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas Fairbanks? Suppose the Dodgers leave Brooklyn?
— Joe...
— Suppose Lake Michigan overflows?
— Well, don't look now, but the whole town is underwater.
Look... No pastry, no butter — and no Sugar.
— Which of these instruments do you play?
— Bow fiddle.
— Oh, fascinating! Do you use a bow or do you just pluck it?
— Most of the time, I slap it!
— Next. What's in here?
— My golf clubs. Putter, niblick, No.3 iron.
— What's this?
— My mashie.
I gave her three transfusions. We had the same type blood — type O.
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