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what are they? |
dogs and your mother. |
that's a very short list, isn't it? |
yes... |
but you were quite insistent... |
what was i? |
that an exception be made. |
no, no, no, because forget the dog rule, because this pug is amazing. |
watch this. |
abergard, go. |
*barks* do you not hear that? |
that's puttin' on the ritz, man. |
i'm always insistent, woodhouse. |
yes, sir. |
but i'm not to be trusted, am i? |
no, sir. |
stop. shut up. |
i have to go. |
but if i find one single dog hair when i get back... |
i'll rub sand in your dead little eyes. |
very good, sir. |
i also need you to go buy sand. |
yes, sir. |
i don't know if they grade it but... coarse. |
one entire whole week we've been calling you. |
highly unprofessional. |
really? because i find your sweatiness unprofessional. |
so we have something in common. |
besides the fact that now both of our shirts reek of curry. |
and when will you settle your account? |
when will you buy some dress shields? |
this is not a dress. |
are you serious? that's not a dress? |
oh, god, with the curry again. |
this shirt smells like indira gandhi's thong. |
hey, you wanna smell something? |
swear to god, mr. archer... |
i have h.r. on speed dial. |
shut up. |
hey, krieger, you gotta smell this. |
krieger? huh. |
you geeks wanna smell something? |
archer, get the hell out. |
what is it with you people? |
try to include people in your life and then you... lana. |
hey. hey, what does this smell like? |
like the dysfunctional asshole i broke up with six months ago. |
oh, my god. |
you're amazing. |
you are amazing, sweet stuff. |
wanna do it again and put on some interracial porn? |
god, it's like my brain's that tree, and you're those little cookie elves. |
*phone rings* just a second. |
no, baby, don't answer that. |
i have to. |
sorry, it's mother. |
mother, hey. just a second. |
i cannot believe you. |
no, turn it on. |
i can do both. |
what? |
so don't speak to me, ever. |
and while you're not ever speaking to me, jump up your own ass and die. |
oh, rea... after all that h.r. mediation. |
really? |
yup. |
after all the hard work pam did. |
is that archer? |
goddamn it. |
archer, hey. go away. |
about your operations account... not... |
cyril, not now. |
yes, now. |
not a good time. |
you've got serious discrepancies... in your account. |
no, cyril. |
i'm sure you wouldn't use operational funds for personal expenses. |
come on, 22 black. |
twenty-two black. twenty-two. |
black. ass. son of a bitch. |
heh. |
not you, giant african man. |
i'm sorry. |
can i offer you a drink? |
how about this expensive prostitute? |
that is a very serious implication, cyril. |
well, so is embezzlement. |
yeah? |
well, so is the fact that you, some crazy-how, are screwing my ex. |
archer, please. that's private. |
not calm enough? |
you all know about cyril and lana, right? of course, because if pam knows, then everybody knows... because of pam's huge mouth. |
right, pam? |
h.r. mediations are supposed to be confidential, pam, you manatee. |
and as for you, cyril, good day, sir. |
archer. |
hey, wait. |
what about your account? |
oh, i get it. |
classic misdirection. |
Subsets and Splits