One day you meet an Indian,
you say,

"Hey, Indian, what are you, a truthful
Whitefoot or a lying Blackfoot?"

He says, "I'm a truthful Whitefoot."
But which is he?

Why couldn't you just
look at his feet?

Because he's wearing moccasins.
Well, then,
he's a truthful Whitefoot, of course.

Why not a lying Blackfoot?
- Which one are you?
- A truthful Whitefoot.

Come in.
- Sit down.
- Why? Do you wanna look at my feet?

- Uh...
- Ohh.

Hey, knock it off.
Come on, Reggie, listen to me.

Here it comes,
the fatherly talk.

- You forget I'm already a widow.
- So was Juliet, at 15.

- But I'm not 15.
- Well, that's your trouble...
you're too old for me.

- Can't you be serious?
- Oh! You just said a horrible word.

- What did I say?
- Serious.

When a man gets to be my age, that's
the last word he ever wants to hear.

I don't want to be serious,
and I especially don't want you to be.

Okay, we'll just sit around all day
being frivolous. How about that, hmm?

Reggie, cut it out.
- Now what are you doing?
- Cutting it out.

- Who told you to do that?
- You did.

I'm not through
complaining yet.

- Now cut it out.
- Alex, I think I love you.

Hey, the telephone's ringing.
Never mind.
Whoever it is won't give up,
and neither will I.

Just a minute.
Go on, take it.

I'm sorry, uh...
I was just, uh...

nibbling on something.
Say, I'd appreciate it
mighty highly...

if you'd, uh, wiggle on over to room 46
and chew the fat for a spell.

Give me one reason
why I should.

Yeah. A little one,
about six or seven.

Keeps callin' for Aunt Reggie.