Mr and Mrs Jazz do brunch

"You've got to see this, Mrs Jazz. Dagwood is running late for work - again! - and as he rushes out the door, he runs smack dab into the friggin mailman. Letters are flying everywhere. Jeez, is that guy ever a spaz." "He surely is a spaz, Mr Jazz." "Yeah, Mrs Jazz. That mailman ought to razz the spaz." "If as, Mr Jazz. I don't think that milquetoast mailman has the pizzazz to razz the spaz." "Your right... I really hate the negative male stereotypes they perpetuate throughout the entire Blondie strip. As a man, I find them to be unswinging to the max." "You know what's unswinging to the max, Mr Jazz? This apartment. I wish we could afford another chair." "Another chair? You got that right, Mrs Jazz. That would be some big time swinging." "Then I could use the table, and I wouldn't be tripping over the coffee pot all the time." "Logic is your forte, Mrs Jazz. Speaking of swinging, I better pack up my saxophone and get us down to our gig at the Pink Pussycat. That Sunday brunch crowd is probably primed to get down with the cool sounds of Mr and Mrs Jazz." "They sure do love to cut the rug while we cut the mustard, don't they Mr Jazz? Sausages everywhere! You know, sometimes I wish that we could bottle ourselves up like a bottle of Heinz, so that we could be on the table of every cocktail lounge in the entire country at the same time." "Except for the Midwest, Mrs Jazz. I don't think those cats are ready for the sort of cool sounds we're laying down." "You got that right, Mr Jazz. Whereas the razzamatazz of our jazz has them swinging from New Jersey out to Alcatraz." "Don't get me started, Mrs Jazz, don't get me started."

After brunch, Mr Jazz heads down to the big raffle, and
plays some swinging bass with Louie Prima.

Oh, Mrs. Jazz, what's got into you!

Meanwhile, Mrs Jazz seeks a gig of her own...