Hey, Bobby. What in God’s name are you doing?
You look like the opera singer that Bugs Bunny got in a fight with.
“I’m beginning to get the feeling that a great deal of your worldview was shaped by cartoons.”
Just the good ones. So: what is this?
“Debutante ball. Daughter’s being presented to San Francisco society.”
That is the most gentile sentence I’ve ever heard.
“It is un-ethnic, yeah. Hey, uh: didn’t we play one of these things? My sister’s, right?”
“Phil had a Fender?”
“Don’t remember that. When was this?”
September of ’66.
“If you start–”
SunRIIIIIIIIISE, sunset. SunRIIII–
“–singing we’re done. We’re done.”
Congratulations, Bobby. And to your wife, Natasha Monster.
“Thank you. Go away.”