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I spent the majority of last night
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going over your records with Mr. Winger,
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scouring them for the slightest mistake, the tiniest slip up.
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And I gotta tell you, Todd. Couldn't find a thing.
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Not one little smudge.
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Except, of course, for one pesky yam that just wouldn't grow.
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That had to weigh on your soul, didn't it, Todd?
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- Maybe a little. - A little?
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A big orange splotch on your perfect record?
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I bet that pissed you right off, didn't it?
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Is that why you hit your wife?
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Withdrawn.