So, we’re watching The Bells of St. Mary’s for the fifth time—wholesome movie, so much more fun than hot jazz and lively bars—when some fella in the balcony starts hollering, “Hee-haw!” at me. “Is that man drunk, daddy?” whispers Zuzu, afraid. “No,” I sigh, sinking lower into my seat. “That’s just Sam Wainwright.”
George Bailey here. I love Sam Wainwright, I really do. But if he says, “Hee-haw!” one more time, I’m going to fucking kill him.
His speech at my father’s funeral? “Hee-haw.” My wedding toast? “Hee-haw.” His honeymoon night? “Hee-haw,” over and over again. I only know this because his fancy, fur-draped wife came crying to Mary and asked if that was normal. It is not normal.