The clip a toast for hildy from The Front Page (1974) with Charles Durning
I snitched the ice from the morgue.
What will you have, Jennie?
Uh, maybe a little straight gin.
Careful. You're getting the cards wet.
It's about time somebody washed them.
I could go for some ginger ale.
Hey, slick, join us.
Rock & Rye, please.
Here you are, kid.
Well, Hildy, here's to you.
You lucky bastard.
And may the wind at your back never be your own.
All right. Ahem.
You sentimental slobs, before everybody gets falling down drunk,
I got a few markers here.
McHugh, you owe me $5.
I'll give it to you tomorrow.
I won't be here. I'll send it to you.
I'll bet it gets lost in the mail.
Schwartz, $6.75. For what?
For being a lousy poker player. That's for what's.
Hildy, about that $30. You'll have to wait,
it wasn't just my kid taking sick, my old lady isn't-
What $30? Forget it.
I might've known I couldn't collect from you deadbeats, anyway.
Big time Charlie, huh?
How much they payin' you?
Oh, you wouldn't want to know.
It'd just make you green with envy.
Are you gonna have one of those offices
with a rug on the floor, and the stenographer on your lap?
Oh, my wife won't go for that.
Bet you get Saturdays and Sundays off.
You're gonna join the Country Club, golf and Mah Jongg,
silk pajamas with a monogram right across your chest...
Hold it. Now, look who's talking. Journalists.
Bunch of crazy buttinskies with dandruff
on their shoulders and holes in their pants.
Peeking through keyholes, waking people up in the middle of the night
to ask them what they think about Aimee Semple McPherson.
Stealing pictures off old ladies
of their daughters that get raped in Oak Park.
And for what? So a million shop girls
and motormen's wives can get their jollies.
And the next day, somebody wraps
the front page around a dead mackerel.