I am among the last one hundred people in North America that still buy CDs, so every Tuesday morning I go into my local HMV to check out the new releases. It’s getting kind of sad now. HMV used to have a massive CD section. Now it’s a basically a corner of the store next to the cleaning supplies, and they barely even bother to alphabetize their stock. Every time I actually buy something, I am stared at with bemused curiosity by the staff. “You know there is something called iTunes, don’t you?”, I can see them thinking. Yes, I fucking know. But if I am going to pay the same amount on iTunes, I might as well get an actual, tangible object so I can still have my music collection when my computer inevitably melts down. Also, CDs will be valuable like currency in the coming zombie apocalypse. CDs and anal virginity. And any sort of anti-zombie spray you may have developed. Mark my words.

Anyway, walking into HMV, I was immediately struck by a DVD box set I saw on the end of one of the shelves.

Jesus, that’s pretty blunt. I know HMV isn’t doing well, but I didn’t think it was stocking those.

I moved closer.

Oh, CLINT. Never mind.

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.

Contrary to my hyper-masculine public image, I’m actually not that butch. The overt sexism, the butch bravado — it’s all a cover-up for the fact that my favourite TV network is TLC. (It’s also my favourite band — I MISS YOU, LEFT EYE!)*.

The TLC show line-up is absolutely fantastic – a freak show every night. And it’s TLC – The Learning Channel. I’m learning while watching it. It’s educational, so it has to be good for me. Mrs. Butter Chicken and I just had a little baby chicken (okay, now I’m pushing it) so we stay home a lot while our baby screams in our faces. Parenting – it’s magic! Thus, TV (and TLC) ALL THE TIME. My favourites:

- “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding”

This show is a fantastic paradox. It makes a passing attempt at explaining the culture and plight of the gypsy (or “traveller”) in England, when all the while you know it just champing at the bit to revel in the awesomely, mumbly white trash spectacle that is the gypsy wedding. Simpletons! Huge dresses! Whore Dancing! It’s solid gold programming!

I found it pretty confusing that the gypsies actually had passable looking teeth. Is dentistry one of the basic gypsy skills, like palmistry, curses and trailer repair?

Upon viewing this show on Sunday, I have come to the realization that Brad Pitt should have won an Oscar for his performance in “Snatch”. He fucking nailed it.

- “Cake Boss”

I hope that fucking idiot falls in his oven. I only watch this show to confirm how much I pray for his death.

- “Say Yes To The Dress – Big Bliss”

You take the premise of an emotionally stunted and immature publicity whore shopping for a wedding dress, add the gayest human being on earth as the head of the dress store and mix with passive-aggressive siblings, tyrannical and manipulative mothers, and “OMIGOD, I’M ON TV, NOW’S MY CHANCE, SASHAY, CHANTER” gay friends, you’ve got yourself a hit. You combine this with “Big Bliss”, namely comically obese brides trying to wedge their fat asses into wedding dresses, and the entertainment factor is to the moon. My favourite part: when they zip up one of the bride’s dresses and she has back cleavage. Not just a little bit of skin — the fat around her shoulder blades actually forms two breasts. Beautiful.

- “Extreme Couponing”

Or as I refer to it, “Hoarders – the Early Years”. Yes, it’s exciting to see someone buy $400 worth of groceries for fifty cents due to their couponing prowess. Fine. Well done. But the show is fantastic because the people involved have absolutely no self-awareness. Why in god’s name would you need 112 bags of croutons? NO ONE EATS THAT MANY CROUTONS! It’s literally collecting for the sake of collecting without any connection to actual need. If they ever show this program in the Third World, US embassies are going to be burned to the ground before the first commercial break. “We’re so fucking prosperous that I have $20,000 worth of food in my basement. It’ll probably all go bad by the time I actually need it, but it was free so what the fuck?”

The whole thing reminds me of when Homer had the sugar mountain in his yard.

“Must…protect…sugar. Thieves everywhere. The strong must protect the sweet…the sweet…”

Also, would it hurt these folks to get a few fresh vegetables or fruits? If they have to pay more than a penny, the answer is yes, yes it would.

- “Sister Wives”

Still waiting for the episode where the husband awkwardly tries to coax them all into a fivesome.

- “19 Kids and Counting”

I am pretty sure the dad is a middle-aged version of Kenneth the NBC Page.

Also, 19 kids sounds like a fairly Kenneth thing to do. Somebody should really investigate.

Also, it’s obligatory: her vagina must be like a fucking dumbwaiter now.

- “LA Ink”

You know when you see people with cool hair and cool clothes and cool tattoos and you think, “wow, I wish I was a lot cooler. I bet their lives are awesome.” Well, here is LA Ink to actively disprove that theory. You take a quick peak behind the wizard’s curtain and it’s pretty clear that these cool cats may simply be high-functioning Down’s Syndrome sufferers with a fortunate Betty Page aesthetic.

- “Kate Plus 8″

Stop worrying. These kids are going to turn out fine. Cameras in their faces all their life. Harpy showbiz mom. Absentee father. It’s basically a sociological experiment on how to make a Lohan.

- “Toddlers and Tiaras”

Don’t judge me. How is my child supposed to win any pageants if I don’t start my research now?

I’d write more but “The Little Couple” is on.

Humanize them all you want, TLC — they still creep the shit out of me.

* This statement can be properly attributed to Manny Malhotra.

You Can’t Consent to Sex While Unconscious, Says Supreme Court

Well, there go my weekend plans.

Add this to the Supreme Court of Canada’s previous ruling that it is not possible to have sex in bucket seats, and you’ve basically invalidated the mating ritual of a large swath of the American midwest.

Oh well, I guess there’s always this.

 

I was travelling in the States for a few days last week. On a trip to a convenience store (where I suspiciously eyed the clerk and told him that Bin Laden was only the first. U-S-A! U-S-A! THESE COLOURS DON’T RUN!) I bought myself a quick snack. I decided to throw caution to the wind (or gasoline to the mosque, whatever expession you prefer) and bought myself a candy bar that’s not available in Canada. The bar?

OMIGOD, IT’S WONDERFUL!!!!!

Once again I feel absolutely ripped off being born Canadian. Where the fuck was this candy bar all my life? We’re stuck with fucking Big Turk bars while our Southern neighbours feast on these awesome things. Total and utter bullshit. And what in God’s name is up with the Big Turk bar?

Turkish Delight is awful. I don’t like to generalize (okay, I LOVE to generalize) but Middle Eastern desserts are abysmal. Putting aside baklava, the entire region is devoid of good, sweet things to eat. Little known fact: the Intifadah was caused by jealously over a Krispy Kreme franchise opening in Israel.

Not only is Big Turk terrible, but did someone actually think that was a good name for a candy bar?

Mom: Son, what’s all over your face?

Son: I had a Big Turk in my mouth!

/swarthy, obese neighbour named Kamal goes to jail for sexual assault.

It’s a problem waiting to happen.

Anyway, PayDay bars are fantastic, all sweet and salty, like cunnilingus on a diabetic! Sure, they look like this:

Namely, they vaguely look like a turd after someone ate dinner at the ballpark. However, it could be worse. They could be a Mr. Big bar.

Wow. That’s like someone snacking on a piece of shit in the middle of a Gowan video. “When you’re this big, they call you homoerotic.”

Me? I’ll just stick to the PayDay bar. There are going to be a lot of awkward trips to Buffalo Costcos in the near future.

It’s Monday. It’s May. The weather sucks where I am. There is simply no better time to reflect upon our collective historical achievements… So please join me once again as we take a stroll through the rectums annals of history, and re-live the May 16ths of yesteryear:

218 – Julia Maesa, aunt of the assassinated Caracalla, is banished to her home in Syria by the self-proclaimed emperor Macrinus and declares her 14-year old grandson Elagabalus, emperor of Rome. And I think we all remember the numerous accomplishments of Emperor Elagabalus  - I believe he went on to play for the Lakers…

1811 – Peninsular War: The allies Spain, Portugal and United Kingdom, defeat the French at the Battle of Albuera, marking yet another milestone in the storied history of “Great French Military Defeats”.

1929 – In Hollywood, California, the first Academy Awards are handed out, marking the beginning of a Hollywood conspiracy that would culmniate in 2009 with The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (or as it is known under its European release title, Four Hours of Your Life That You Will Never Get Back) beating The Dark Knight for Best Visual Effects.

1948 – Chaim Weizmann is elected the first President of Israel, finally bringing a permanent  end to tensions in the region.

1988 – A report by United States’ Surgeon General C. Everett Koop states that the addictive properties of nicotine are similar to those of heroin and cocaine. A nation of excited teens flock to their local convenience stores to get high.

1986 - Megan Fox is born, leading to an unprecedented loss of future baby General Taos (giving new meaning to the term “spermicide”).

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?