- Son, open your door! - Mom, wait, I'll open it! Eduardo Augusto Pereira, open this door!
- Son, mommy's going in. One. .
. - Wait, mom. .
. Son, mommy's going in. Two.
. . - Son, mommy's going in.
Three. - Mom. .
. - What are you hiding back there? - I'm not hiding anything!
- What are you hiding back there, Eduardo Henrique? - Nothing, mom. .
. - Nothing? If it's nothing, let me see it.
. . - No, mom.
. . Don't give me "no mom"!
Get out! - What is this, son? - It's a dresser.
And what is this mime dresser is doing in your room? - Are you doing mime, Eduardo? - No, mom.
. . Look at me!
Are you doing mime, Eduardo? What is this behind you? - Nothing, mom.
. . - Are you hiding things from your mom?
What is this? A mime paper. .
. You're not into mime, right. .
. Mime marijuana, son? It could be at least real marijuana!
- I forbid you to hang out with Márcio! - But mom. .
. No ÔbutÕ, no anything! I want you to get rid of all the mime things in this house, you hear me?
So I'll get rid of the washing machine and the microwave oven! Go ahead! If it's mime, I don't want it in this house!
So you don't get used to this easy life! So I'll have to get rid of the TV too. The LED TV you gave mommy is a mime?
That's right, son, I want it out of here! I don't want no mime stuff in this house, it's an example for you, you can't get everything easy just because of mime! You have to work hard!
- Everything? - Everything. Even Santana?
Son, Santana is a mime? Mom, you walk around with him everywhere and you didn't notice? Honey, can you come upstairs for a minute, please?
Can you come upstairs for a minute, please? - Yes, I called. - No, I'm fine.
I'm the one talking to Santana! Santana, honey. .
. Are you a mime, Santana? You know what I'm talking about!
Are you a mime or not, Santana? Why didn't you tell me? That's a crappy excuse, Santana!
No wonder you were so strange in Miami! - I hate you both! - Easy, mom.
. . My dressesr!
Don't do it, mom! Stop! My CDs, mom!
Not my ninja star! My guitar, mom! Stop, my hoe!
Not the Maylon, mom! I can't believe it. .
. - Mom! Drp that!
- Shut up, Santana! - Drp that, mom! Put that down!
No, Santana! - Santana! - Mom, what did you do.
. . - I didn't know it was loaded with mime bullets, son.
. . - Mom, don't touch anything so you won't leave prints!
- I'm shaking, son! - Don't touch anything so you won't leave prints! - What should we do?
What should we do? Son, check if Santana's all right, please. .
. - Mom, Santana is dead! - I can't believe it, what now?
Did the neighbours listen? Easy, mom, I'll put him in a suitcase. .
. I can't believe it, so dangerous! Easy, mom.
. . Mommy will help you, son.
. . - Son what should I do with this gun?
- If anyone asks, this gun never existed! - More! - Yes!
That's it! The new new is the new black. And the new black is the semi new.
