Phil, tell that kid his marshmallow’s done.
“I’m not the boss.”
Yes, you are. You own the place.
“I just don’t want to.”
“You mean Long Strange Crap?”
Oh, boy. Didn’t like it?
“Not even ten percent of the story. Really missed a lot of stuff.”
“Well, you know the old saying: no Ned, no Dead.”
That is not a saying.
“Did you know that the Dead had an incredible softball team?”
“Course not! Wasn’t in that so-called ‘movie.'”
It’s a movie, Phil.
“Fake documentary. What’s that jackass’ name?”
“Mister director man.”
Please concentrate. You used to be so much easier to talk to.
“Anal Bear-Claws comes to the restaurant–”
“–and interviews me for like nine hours. I’m in the damn movie for a minute. And he didn’t even show the specials!”
“The specials. I got 200 pounds of short ribs I gotta get rid of.”
Well, that would have been a bit off-topic.
“Mm, yeah. Might have distracted from Franken pontificating about West L.A. Fadeaway.”
“They’re the same song. Listen: you got a four-hour movie, and there’s not a spare ten minutes to detail what an asshole Billy is?”
“There’s ten minutes of Bobby looking at stuff. I gave Amal Clooney–”
“–a monologue of at least 90 minutes on the topic of Billy. I went over how he was an asshole, when he was an asshole, and to what extent he was an asshole. And evidence, too! I brought receipts.”
Why are you merely passive-aggressive with the other reporters, but just aggressive with me?
“Why would I give a shit about you? Pitchfork won’t even hire you.”
Marshmallow fall into the fire?