WE’RE SORRY, SIR!

“Stop, er, yelling at me. I can hear you. What are you sorry for?”

Literally everything.

“You all have, er, botched things up, haven’t you?”

We have, yes.

“Jap destroyer ran over my boat. I swam through the ocean four miles towing an injured man with my teeth. I, er, did that for my country. Could have gone to Wall Street. Gotten rich. I entered pubic service. I did that for my country. Do you know how much gonorrhea I’ve gotten for my country?”

So much.

“Jack’s a pussy man, son.”

Ew.

“I am, er, the President of Pussy.”

You’re not.

“I am.”

Okay, you kind of are.

“What have you done with the America I left you, son? Have you finished what I started?”

What did you start?

“Moon.”

We went there.

“Excellent. Is it now, er, some sort of colony?”

No, we stopped going because everyone got bored with it.

“What? What about Mars? How long have we been going to Mars?”

We sent robots to mars. And we have a space station.

“Wonderful. How many people live there? Has the first generation of Space Americans been born?’

It’s not like that. The International Space Station is basically a half-dozen tin cans lashed together.

“What you’re describing sounds like the definition of ‘the least you could do.'”

Kinda.

“Cuba?”

Castro died!

“Great news, great. When?”

Four months ago.

“You’re shitting me.”

That guy was the Michael Jordan of not dying.

“How is Gina Lollabrigida?”

Either dead or very old.

“Me and Bobby made a bridge out of Gina.”

Wonderful joke, Mr. President.

“Good times. Bobby would often join Peter Lawton, Frank, myself for a little hanky-panky. Then, after the hanky-panky, we would start fucking.”

That’s a lovely story.

“Peter Lawton never paid for a whore in his life. Not a meal, not a whore. I learned that very early in life: always, er, pay your whores.”

Good advice.

“Now tell me what’s going on in the White House, son. This is an untenable situation you have here. There is, er, chaos. There is, er, confusion. There is, er, nepotism.”

Well, maybe you’re not the best one to accuse people of nepotism.

“I appointed Bobby as Attorney General because he was the most qualified member of my family.”

Another wonderful joke, sir.

“I am, er, very charming.”

You are.

“My brother Bobby was a United States Senator. He was approved by the Senate. Once in office, he took on the Mafia, and the Teamsters, and he fought for civil rights.”

Jared owns hotels and Ivanka sells shoes.

“Right, right. And the fellow is just unpleasant looking. Like a dog’s balls that someone took a cheese grater to.

True.

“Look at me. Look at how handsome I am.”

You’re very handsome.

“Admire my vigor.”

I like the way you say that in your accent.

“Admire my vigor!”

Yes, sir. Nice vigor.

“Who was the last one? The negro fellow?”

Not a negro.

“Son, I’ve seen negroes before. I know what they look like.”

Black. Negros are black now.

“Good for them. Anyway, the tall one. Dignified. That’s what a president should look like.”

I agree.

“What was his name?”

Barack Obama.

“Googa magooga.”

Please stop being from 1961. His name was Barack Obama. Perfectly normal name.

“Middle name?”

Didn’t have one.

“I bet that Obama’s a pussy man, too.”

He is not. You’re worse than Nixon in many ways.

“What’s he doing now? I should call him. Presidents’ orgy time.”

He will not do that.

“I have orgied with many negroes.”

I would honestly rather talk to Nixon.

“Well, Nixon is busy right now, young man. Come back after Mr. Charles is gone.”

Mr. Charles?

“You talking to the pretty boy?”

Yes, sir.

“Well, go make your gaga eyes at him. Nixon will, uh, be here with Mr. Charles, whom I am informed is referred to as Brother Ray.”

“You know it, baby.”

“Go back to Harvard Boy.”

Aw.