Gourmet Spud’s reflections


Jimmy: Hey! This is a great beach!

Lars: Isn’t it totally amazing? I just discovered it a few weeks ago.

Jimmy: Perfect place to spend a Saturday, catching some rays and nursing a hangover.

Lars: Yep. Look, there’s a spot right over there.

(Walk to spot, lay down towels)

Jimmy: (flops down on towel) Oh, man. I am never moving.

Lars: (applying sunscreen) Careful there. You might accidentally make a move from translucent to just pale.

Jimmy: It’s a proud Scottish complexion. And quit scoping out my tan, fag.

Lars: Self-hating. Speaking of tans…(hands over sunscreen)…here, get my back.

Jimmy: Heh. You wish.

Lars: I’m serious. C’mon, I burn like a motherfucker.

Jimmy: No way!

Lars: What do you mean, ‘no way’?

Jimmy: I mean, ‘no way am I putting sunscreen on your back’.

Lars: Why not?

Jimmy: Because I’m not, end of story!

Lars: (shifts backwards towards him) Seriously, do it, or else I’ll be peeling for weeks.

Jimmy: Get away from me, dude!

Lars: Hey, what’s your friggin’ problem, man?

Jimmy: I don’t have the problem. You do. You have an unlotioned back, and you need to find someone other than me to take care of it.

Lars: I can’t believe this.

Jimmy: (pulls hat over eyes, lays back) This conversation is over.

Lars: …

Jimmy: Zzzzz…

Lars: PUT THE FUCKIN’ LOTION ON MY BACK BEFORE I BURN YOU SELFISH PRICK!

Guy Walking By: Meow! Trouble in paradise, ladies?

Jimmy: (pops up) You see? That’s exactly why I’m not doing it.

Lars: Why?

Jimmy: Because it’s gay.

Lars: So what?

Jimmy: So what? Why don’t you ask a girl to do it?

Lars: Look around, dumbshit. Do you see any girls?

Jimmy: (looks around) Now that you mention it – I don’t.

Lars: You sound surprised.

Jimmy: Of course I’m sur…wait a minute. Did…did you take me to a gay beach?

Lars: What does it look like? But if I knew you were going to be such a bitch about it, I would have taken you some place else.

Jimmy: What do you mean, ‘taken me’?

Lars: Oh, so now you’re going to tell me that you just want to be friends?

Jimmy: Lars.

Lars: (angry) What?

Jimmy: I’m not gay.

Lars: What? Course you are.

Jimmy: No, I ain’t.

Lars: Come on, now.

Jimmy: I’m not, dude. Sorry.

Lars: But you answered my personal ad in The Recycler?

Jimmy: No, I answered your ad in the classifieds.

Lars: Oh man. I’ve got to start keeping those phone numbers straight.

Jimmy: …

Lars: Jesus, I feel like such a tool.

Jimmy: For what it’s worth, I don’t care that you are, dude.

Lars: Ah, hell, I don’t even know if I am. It’s just, like, a stage that every single Danish person has to go through for some reason.

Jimmy: Well, whatever. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.

Lars: Ah, no problem. But say, know how you could make it up to me?

Jimmy: How?

Lars: Put the lotion on my back.

Jimmy: Ask me again, and this band’s over before it starts.

Lars: Fine. (kicks sand angrily) You know, for the pain in the ass that you’re turning out to be, you sure as shit better end up the greatest songwriter in metal history.

Jimmy: Hey, save it for band counseling, fella.

Lars: Yeah. Like that’s a thing.

(The both laugh)

Lars: Say, do you think that Mustaine guy is gay?

***

AND THAT, CHILDREN, IS THE STORY OF THE FORMATION OF METALLICA!

Ever hear David Cross’s “Henderson Valley Eggs” bit, about marketers that try to “hippify” products that completely don’t warrant it?

Anyways, Nordica Cottage Cheese has a new ad campaign. You may have noticed them on billboards throughout the province. The spots challenge us to rid our minds of our preconceived notions about cottage cheese (you have those, right?), and start thinking outside the…whatever it is people normally put cottage cheese in. A bowl, I guess.

Now I don’t envy the ad agency behind the campaign (that’d be Toronto’s Agency 59). It can’t be easy to market something that is visually indistinguishable from bird shit. But when it comes to selling food, I’m pretty sure the one thing you absolutely cannot, must not do is make your intended target start to involuntary gag. Better luck next time.

Here are the ads in question.

Ad 1:

Okay, cottage cheese on a burger. This one is…not so bad. Cheese goes on burgers. Granted, it’s usually not liquidy chunks of cheese, but we’re in the ballpark. I can totally see a baked college student putting cottage cheese on a Big Bacon Classic he picked up at Wendy’s at 2:00 a.m., and feeling like he discovered the next big thing in flavour. Moving on.

Ad 2:

Cottage cheese cake. This I have a problem with. It kind of looks like carrot cake, only they’ve switched out the best part (frosting) for chilled semen curds. What did they do to get the stuff to stick to the cake like that? If my life unfolds in the way I am hoping, I’ll never find out.

Can it possibly get worse?

Ad 3:

Hmm. Chocolate syrup and cheese.

Well, we’ve had a nice run together, food. Looks like it’s IVs for me from now on.

A series of adventures starring the controversial Mayor of Toronto and his beleaguered older brother/city councilor, Doug.

***

(Toronto. Office of the Mayor)

Rob: (screaming into hallway) Doug! Dougy, come in here, quick!

Doug: (bursts into office) What’s wrong?

Rob: You’ll never guess what I found! (opens drawer in desk) Mayor Miller’s secret porno mag stash!

Doug: Huh?

Rob: (flipping through magazines) Obese N’ Easy, Horny Inuit Quarterly, Barely Legal Immigrants…this is some sick stuff. Nya-ha-ha-ha! Miller was a total perv!

Doug: Those are yours.

Rob: Eh?

Doug: (picking up magazine) Look. You had your assistant label the covers “Property of Mayor Ford – DO NOT TOUCH!”

Rob: Hmm.

Doug: Jesus, Bobby, you even used your mayoral seal on them. I told you that thing was not a toy.

Rob: Well, that explains why they were in a drawer with my brass knuckles.

Doug: Either way, I’m glad you called me in here. We need to talk about Pride.

Rob: Aw, Christ, Dougy. Not this again.

Doug: Yes, this again. You can’t keep punting this issue and expect people to forget about it.

Rob: For God’s sake, what more do they want? I already signed the proclamation.

Doug: Yeah, but you need to do something publicly. I’m telling you, skipping the parade was a big deal.

Rob: Hey, don’t pin that one on me. I told you I would go.

Doug: Yeah – on a float with a bunch of lesbian strippers from The Rail. Jesus, I’m trying to get you re-elected here, dumbshit.

Rob: (jumping up from chair) YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME A DUMBSHIT ANYMORE, DOUGY! I’M THE MAYOR OF THIS TOWN!

Doug: Okay, tiger, okay. Relax.

Rob: (sits down, breathing heavily)

Doug: All I’m saying is, we’re in heavy damage control mode, and you need to make a symbolic gesture.

Rob: Can’t you just tell them I’m religious or something? And that it’s against my believes?

Doug: Beliefs.

Rob: What did I say?

Doug: We can’t play the religion card.  We don’t want the press figuring out that you haven’t been to church since that time you got drunk and took a dump in the tabernacle at St. Paul’s.

Rob: Nya-ha-ha-ha! I totally forgot about that! Jeez, we were a couple of crazy kids, eh?

Doug: That was four years ago. At my daughter’s baptism.

Rob: Sounds about right. How is my goddaughter, anyway?

Doug: I didn’t make you the godfather.

Rob: You know what? Fine. Have it your way. (waving arms sarcastically) Let’s make a big public spectracle to show I’ve got nothing against the queers.

Doug: Thanks, Bobby.

Rob: Maybe a dinner or something with some big-name gay-types.

Doug: Hey, that’s a great idea. You can invite Irene Miller and her family, maybe Brian Burke.

Rob: C’mon, Dougy! Think bigger!

Doug: Okay. Who did you have in mind?

Rob: Picture this. Mayor Ford. At Red Lobster. Eating dinner with…the gay Transformer.

Doug: …

Rob: The yellow one. What’s his name…Bumblebee.

Doug: …

Rob: (picks up phone, starts dialing) Tell you what, I’ll make the reso at The Lobs, you call your contacts in the movies.

Doug: Hang up the phone.

Rob: Huh? Why?

Doug: Because it’s the stupidest god damn thing I’ve ever heard, that’s why.

Rob: (leaping to feet) WHY? BECAUSE I THOUGHT OF IT?

Doug: No, because first of all, BUMBLEBEE IS NOT A REAL PERSON, YOU DUMBSH…

Rob: (leaps over desk, tackles Doug to the ground) I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!

Doug: Gah! (flips Rob over, pins him to ground) Knock it off, kid!

Rob: LET ME UP!

Doug: Not until you calm…

Rob: LET ME UP I SAID!

Doug: Fine! (rolls off Rob, sits on ground, panting)

Rob: (sits up, dusts self off angrily)

Doug: You’re crazy, you know that?

Rob: Yeah, and you’re an asshole.

Doug: Why? Because I’m trying to help you do your job?

Rob: No! Because you…

Doug: Because I what?

Rob: (softly) Because you treat me like a goddamn kid. But I’m not a kid anymore, Dougy. I’m the mayor, for chrissakes.

Doug: I know that.

Rob: Well, you sure don’t act like it sometimes.

Doug: …

Rob: (wipes nose on sleeve)

Doug: You know something? You’re right. I don’t treat you with enough respect.

Rob: (shrugs shoulders, absent-mindedly scratches at cheese stain on pants)

Doug: I guess it’s just that…sometimes I still see you as my baby bro, you know? The chubby little guy, running around Etobicoke, laughing and joking and tackling mailboxes. And I overlook the impressive, powerful, responsible leader of a major city that you’ve become.

Rob: (smiles)

Doug: I mean it. From now on, I’m going to start treating you with the respect that this office – and that you - deserve.

Rob: (hushed voice) That’s all I ever wanted.

Doug: Hug?

Rob: Yeah.

(They stand up and hug)

Doug: I really do love your dinner idea. Let’s just give some more thought to the guest list, okay?

Rob: Okay. But can we take the rest of the day off? Too much work gives me lower back pain, shortness of breath, high blood pressure and hyperhydrosis.

Doug: Sure we can. What do you want to do…Mr. Mayor?

Rob: (smiles, rubs hands together excitedly)

Doug: Oh, for fu…you want to go see the new Transformers, don’t you?

Rob: (claps hands) I’ll race you to the limo?

Doug: Now now, don’t you think it’s a little beneath the dignity of the office for the mayor to be seen racing a councilor to his car?

Rob: Yeah, I guess you’re…

Doug: (suddenly bursts towards door)

Rob: Oh, you’re going to pay for that! Nya-ha-ha…(rushes towards door, falls, gets up and runs giggling after Doug)

Y’know…maybe he’s not so hard to relate to after all.

Not sure how that theatre stays in business, though. That movie came out three years ago.

Madeline: Thanks for helping me drop those clothes off at Goodwill, Tim. I would never have been able to carry them myself.

Tim: Hey, that’s what sons-in-law are for.

Madeline: Oh, you’re such a good boy. We should pick up lunch to bring back to the house, you two must be hungry.

Tim: I could eat. Subway?

Madeline: Oh, I don’t know these new shops. Whatever you and Kate like.

(Pull into Subway; enter store)

Sandwich Artist: Can I take your order?

Tim: Hi, can we get…

Madeline: Now, now, let me get this.

Tim: Okay, thanks mom. But should I order at least?

Madeline: Please. You’ve done enough today already.

Tim: You sure? I come here all the time.

Madeline: (shooing Tim away) Sit, sit, I’ve got this.

Tim: (puts up hands in mock surrender) Alright, you win. (sits down at table, starts flipping through paper)

Sandwich Artist: What would you like, ma’am?

Madeline: Hmm. What do people usually get here? Sandwiches?

Tim: (arches eyebrow)

Sandwich Artist: Yes ma’am.

Madeline: Okay. And do they come in different sizes?

Sandwich Artist: You can get a six inch sub or a twelve inch sub.

(A large truck driver enters store and gets in line)

Madeline: Tim? Do you want a six inch sandwich or a twelve inch sandwich?

Tim: Twelve, please.

Madeline: And Kate?

Tim: She’ll probably only want a six.

Madeline: Okay, I’ll have one twelve inch sandwich, one six inch sandwich, and…I guess I should get a six inch sandwich, too.

Sandwich Artist: Okay. What kind of bread?

Madeline: What kinds do you have?

Tim: Oh Jesus.

Sandwich Artist: We’ve got them listed right there in front of you.

Madeline: (stares intently at bread display) Hmm.

(A teenage couple enters store and gets in line)

Madeline: Tim, what kind of bread do you want?

Tim: Wheat, please. Same for Kate.

Madeline: (smiles at Sandwich Artist) Three wheats, dear.

Sandwich Artist: You got it. Do you want those toasted?

Madeline: Toasted? You can do that?

Sandwich Artist: We certainly can.

Madeline: Tim, do you…

Tim: No! Kate neither!

Madeline: I think we’ll…

Sandwich Artist: (smiling patiently) I heard him. Now, what kind of subs would you like?

Madeline: There’s more than one?

Truck driver: (looks at watch)

Tim: (hops up from seat) Listen, mom, why don’t you let me order? You can still pay…

Madeline: No, no, I insist. Besides, I’m enjoying this. I’m learning.

Tim: Okay, just get Kate and I BLTs with mayo then.

Madeline: (to Sandwich Artist) Do you have those?

Sandwich Artist: We do. And what can I get for you?

Madeline: (smiles blankly)

Sandwich Artist: Our menu is right up here.

Madeline: Oh my. So many choices. What would you recommend?

(A dad walks in with four kids dressed in soccer uniforms; they get in line)

Sandwich Artist: How about a meatball sub?

Madeline: Oh, heavens no. All that salt? What do you have that doesn’t have much salt in it?

Sandwich Artist: Not much. Veggie, probably.

Madeline: I’ll have one of those.

Truck driver: (begins tapping feet impatiently)

Sandwich Artist: Which vegetables?

Tim: (under breath) Just say ‘all’, just say ‘all’…

Madeline: (points at counter) These are them here?

Sandwich Artist: Yes ma’am.

Madeline: Oh jeez, here we go. Lettuce?

Sandwich Artist: Okay.

Madeline: Tomatoes?

Sandwich Artist: Mm-hmm.

Madeline: Carrots?

Sandwich Artist: Nope.

Madeline: Onions then?

Sandwich Artist: You got it.

Madeline: Few more onions, please.

Sandwich Artist: (adds more)

Madeline: Just a touch more.

Sandwich Artist: (adds a touch more)

Madeline: Perfect.

Sandwich Artist: Anything else for you?

Truck driver: You got anyone else working back there, bud?

Madeline: (turns to truck driver sweetly) Oh, I’m sorry dear. Would you like to go first?

Truck driver: (suddenly sheepish) N-no, ma’am. You go ahead.

Madeline: Are you sure? I’m in no hurry.

Truck driver: (gestures to counter) That’s alright. I insist.

Sandwich Artist: Anything else?

Madeline: Let’s see. Green peppers. Olives. And…a few pickles.

Sandwich Artist: That it?

Madeline: I guess so.

Sandwich Artist: Any dressi…

Tim: SHE’LL HAVE ITALIAN!

Sandwich Artist: Okay.

Madeline: (proudly, to Tim) That wasn’t so hard. (to Sandwich Artist) How much do I owe you, dear?

Sandwich Artist: That’ll be…$16.58.

Madeline: (holding five dollar bill in hand) What’s that now?

Sandwich Artist: $16.58?

Madeline: You have got to be shitting me.

Sandwich Artist: (taken aback) M-ma’am?

Madeline: Twenty bucks? For three submarine sandwiches? Is that some kind of fucking joke?

Tim: Now, mom, calm down…

Sandwich Artist: I…I don’t set the prices, ma’am.

Madeline: I should bloody well hope not! This is an outrage. Here. (slaps $20 bill on counter angrily) I want my change.

Sandwich Artist: Of course. (hands over change) Here you are. I’m sorry if we’ve upset you.

Madeline: You can shove your sorrys up your ass, hairnet.

Tim: Whadda you say we get out of here, huh? (starts leading Madeline out of store)

Madeline: (passing by soccer dad) Your children are ugly.

(Leave store, walk towards car)

Madeline: Can you believe the nerve of those dicklickers? Charging prices like that?

Tim: That’s actually pretty standard these days, mom.

Madeline: Oh, what do you know? I can make these same things for less than two dollars at home. That place will be out of business in a week.

Tim: (chuckles) Well, they have something like 30,000 franchises, mom, so I doubt that…

Madeline: (glares menacingly at Tim)

Tim: …that they can keep going at prices like that. You’re right, they’re a flash in the pan.

Madeline: (rubbing temples) You drive. I got the DTs something fierce.

Tim: Sure thing. Should we pick up some coffees, too?

Madeline: (stares at Tim in disgust)

Tim: (confused, lowers head)

Madeline: These sandwiches smell like shit.

Remember Kanellos, the Greek protest dog? That rabble-rousing mutt who seemed to be present at every social demonstration that took place in Athens over the past 2+ years? Well, I happened to be in Athens during a recent honeymoon, and had a fantastic little encounter with a canine who looked suspiciously like him. Allow me to share the tale.

We were just coming back from visiting the Acropolis, on our way to the National Gardens, when we found ourselves standing at a crosswalk in front of a busy, six-lane roadway. From somewhere down the street to our right, we heard the angry barking of a dog. We started to turn towards the direction of the sound, but our attention was immediately redirected to a responding bark emanating just a few feet behind us. There was something unusual about this particular bark. It was hoarse. Lived-in. Wise.

It belonged to a large, golden retriever-and-something mix, who had unbeknownst to us been sleeping in the shadow of the building at our backs. The first dog’s barking had roused him from his slumber, which he took, it seemed, as his cue it was time to go to work.

And go to work he did. He immediately trotted up beside the ten or so people standing at the crosswalk. The U.S. and Canadian tourists among us were easy to identify, as we were the ones who frantically started ordering him not to cross. He ignored us, in the same way a hippo ignores the incessant buzzing of the horseflies that travel on his back. In the dog’s mind, we weren’t protecting him from walking into traffic; he was seeing us safely to the other side.

Sure enough, the signal changed to walk, and our shaggy escort flanked us on our left, pacing us the entire fifty feet or so until we were completely across. Needless to say, we were impressed. But our awe quickly turned to panic when Kellanos mystery dog turned and walked right back onto the street, the light now having changed with traffic moving straight towards him. Was this proud beast about to meet the most ignoble of ends, right before our horrified eyes?

Nope. Turns out he just wanted to properly position himself for a leaping, threatening chomp. At a city bus. He missed the thing by maybe a foot as it sped by. Maybe he wanted it to slow down?

We collectively exhaled as The Littlest Homer marched safely back onto the sidewalk and started heading up the street. We were trailing about ten feet behind him when he sprung into action again. This time his target was three South Asian gentlemen in their late twenties, two of whom were having great fun scaling a street-side tree. They were venturing out onto a very large branch that hung over the street about ten feet off the ground, and the dog didn’t like it. “Be careful,” he conveyed, by way of a series of very aggressive barks at the lone member of the party standing on the ground. The guy was (rightfully) terrified as the dog inched towards him, and you could practically see him trying to decide whether he should flee up the tree for safety. If the look on his face was any indication, he decided to shit his pants instead. Message delivered, the dog continued on his way up the sidewalk, but not before quickly darting on the street again to take a harmless chomp at a passing motorcyclist (the motorcyclist calmly kicked at the dog in stride – apparently the two had a history). Eventually, he quit the sidewalk, veering off out of sight into some nearby bushes…

…whereupon he emerged ten seconds later, carrying a man’s wallet in his mouth.

I’m still not sure how he knew the wallet was in there – did he put it there himself, or see it get tossed? Or did he just have some sort of preternatural sense for when there was some wrong in a given area that needed to be righted? Either way, he started dragging the open wallet up the street, the cheap plastic card holders (presumably full of membership cards to various bath houses) flapping in the wind. At one point a guy bent down to try and take it from him. The dog jerked his head away violently, and you got the feeling if his mouth wasn’t full he would have taken a hand off for his troubles. Instead, he dragged that wallet all the way to the entrance of the Gardens where, I kid you not, he dropped it in front of the tourist information booth. A man who had seen the dog coming picked up the wallet and turned it in. Fido was three for three.

All of the above happened in the span of five minutes. The next we saw, an impressed tourist was giving the dog pieces of his granola bar. Ever the gregarious leader, he started barking to signal his pals that he had found a soft touch, and a few of them came a-runnin’. We continued into the Gardens, did our little tour, and exited half an hour later to find the dog sleeping peacefully under a nearby bench, having punched out after a shift honourably worked.

Now look – I know the odds that this amazing dog was Kenallos are unlikely. Impossible even. With so many untagged street dogs roaming the streets of Greece, you’re bound to run into dozens of them who are street-smart and who see their neighbourhoods as turf they must police. But I like to think that, with no austerity protests going on in Athens (that day – they’re back at it again), this was Kenallos. He was just biding his time, doing menial tasks to try and keep his skills sharp, like when Wolfgang Puck goes on a cruise and starts getting creative at the buffet salad bar.

We befriended another couple on our honeymoon who managed to take a picture of the dog, and they’ve offered to send it to us. But I’m not so sure I want to see it. Not because I’m not curious and don’t want to compare. But because I have a feeling that Kenallos would somehow know I needed proof it was him. And he would be disappointed in me. Because I didn’t just believe.

Long may you run, protest dog. Just make sure to look both ways.

Donald Trump: Remind me again why I’m doing this gig.

Campaign Manager: Because, sir, recent polls show that Republican voters’ early, um, curiosity with your campaign has all but faded. We need to start showing them a softer, kinder side to Donald Trump immediately, or we’re over before we’ve begun.

Trump: See, that’s what’s wrong with this country. I’m a billionaire. I’m a born leader. I get…things…done. People should be lining up around the corner to support me. But they’d rather back some no-name loser like, who, Pawlenty? Why? Because he kisses a bunch of babies? Makes me sick.

Manager: Sir?

Trump: What?

Manager: You need this. Badly.

Trump: Alright, alright. Let’s get it over with.

(Trump walks through the door and into a class of second-graders)

Teacher: Oh, goodie. Children, I want you all to say hello to Mr. Trump.

Kids: HELLO, MISTER TRUMP!

Teacher: Mr. Trump is running for President of the United States!

Kids: OOOOOOOH!

Trump: Actually, I’m undeclared. Facts are important in your business, lady, get it straight. But time is money, so let’s get started. Who has a question?

Teacher: Um, well, Mr. Trump – your manager and I discussed that you might take the opportunity to read to the children.

Trump: Great. Let’s do, um, Think Like a Billionaire. Where’s your copy?

Teacher: We…don’t have that one.

Trump: How about The Art of the Comeback?

Teacher: (shakes head)

Trump: (rummaging through tiny library in corner) You don’t even have a copy of The Art of the Deal in here!

Teacher: No. But we do have a wonderful selection of age-appropriate literature that would be…

Trump: Forget it. I’m not here to move units for some pederast who writes about talking animals exploring their feelings. I’ll take five questions. You there, in the purple shirt. What do you want to ask me?

Petey: Do you know any of The Wiggles?

Trump: I do. I’ve met them, they’re fabulous, and I consider them dear, dear friends. But let me tell you something about The Wiggles. At some point or another, you have to stop dodging the question or else it looks like you’ve got something to hide. So I’m officially calling on them today to tell us: are they rolling with the Tinky Winkys and Dumbledores of this world, or are they on our side? No shame either way, but America needs to know. Next question – blondie.

Jillian: Um…what’s that on your head?

Kids: (laugh excitedly)

Trump: We’ve still got double-digit employment in a bunch of states. We’re being humiliated by the Chinese on a daily basis. You’ve got a chance to ask me a real question, and you’re going to go with some hackneyed line about my hair? Let me ask you something, what’s your father’s name?

Jillian: Fwank.

Trump: Really? With material that weak, I could have sworn it was Seth Meyers. Step up your game, kid.

Jillian: (bottom lip starts quivering)

Trump: Oh, for Pete’s sake…that was a joke! Here – go buy a thicker skin. (hands Jillian a $100 bill)

Jillian: Wow! A hundwed bucks!

Teacher: Oh my.

Manager: (shakes head)

Trump: Next question. You, with your shirt on backwards.

Zachary: My sister cut her own hair, and now my mom won’t stop crying.

Trump: I don’t know what you’re asking me.

Zachary: Will you help me build a house for my turtle?

Trump: Don’t like this kid. Creeps me out. How’d he get past the Secret Service?

Manager: We don’t have any of those.

Trump: What? How come?

Manager: Well, we put in a request, but they determined that the, uh, risk of an attempt on your person was not sufficiently imminent to warrant deployment of their resources.

Trump: In English.

Manager: They don’t think anyone cares enough about you to take a shot at you.

Trump: What? Those nobodies! Take a note – I’m buying the Secret Service and shutting it down.

Manager: I don’t think you can do that.

Trump: Last question!

Teacher: Well, Mr. Trump, the children have been learning about the Native Americans this week. Perhaps you can speak to them about Native culture and values?

Trump: Sure thing, lady. I’ve got a great relationship with the Wahoos. And I’ll tell you what the problem with them is – HIGH GAS PRICES! At four bucks a gallon, those kids on the reservations have turned to huffing paint, or window cleaner, or what have you. When I’m President, I’m going to finish the job in Libya, and take the oil for ourselves. Then the Indians can go back to huffing gasoline, the way their ancestors did.

Teacher: (drops coffee mug)

Manager: (slaps forehead)

Trump: So, kids, how’s this for a deal – you each go home and get your parents to promise to vote for me, and I’ll put a waterslide out there in the playground. What do you say?

Kids: YAAAAAAYYYY!

Manager: Sir! You cannot make those kinds of promises!

Trump: Why not?

Manager: Well, basic ethics aside, it puts you offside at least a half-dozen campaign rules.

Trump: Bah. You’re always bringing up those rules. That’s loser talk. Are you a loser, Matt?

Manager: Ask me that again after the primary.

Trump: Alright, kids. I’m a very busy man, so I have to go. But remember – no votey, no slidey.

Teacher: Um, Mr. Trump, aren’t you forgetting something?

Trump: Huh? Oh, right. (sigh) Alright, line-up babies, I’m supposed to give you kisses now.

Kids: EWWWWWWW!

Teacher: Mr. Trump! These children are not babies! And we have very strict policies about physical contact.

Trump: Wait, what do you mean, ‘ew’? You kids think you’re such prizes?

Manager: Sir, these children are far too old to kiss.

Jillian: You have cooties!

Kids: (laugh excitedly)

Trump: Oh, I have cooties? Why don’t you try looking in the mirror, sweetheart? I ended Rosie O’Donnell’s career, don’t think I’m scared of you. What’s your father’s name?

Jillian: FWANK, I SAID!

Manager: Sir, you need to leave here. Immediately.

Trump: Well, here’s what I want you to do. Go home and tell Frank that I don’t want his vote, and that his smart-mouth daughter just cost her school a waterslide. Deal’s off.

Kids: (immediately start bawling)

Trump: Not so nice, is it, children? Having your feelings hurt?

Teacher: (storming out of room) I’m getting the principal.

Trump: You kids know I’m friends with Meatloaf?

Manager: (typing on Blackberry) I wonder if Rick Santorum needs a manager?

L’il Marc: C’mon, boy.

Old Feller: Where we goin’?

L’il Marc: Sumpin’ I need to show you. Round back.

Old Feller: Oh, alright. (yawns, hops down off stool) But afterwards, kin we go lie down by the river?

L’il Marc: Fer as long as you like, ol’ buddy. (sniffs, cocks shotgun) Fer as long as you’d like.

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