Frozen Yoghurt

God, this gastric bug, it's got my head all jammed up and my ass is like the thunderdome.

I feel like a gecko.

Sorry to interrupt, but fuck-a-deedoo-dah, fuck-a-Dee-ay!

That is so great for me. And the country. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's what I meant.

That's why I get paid the medium bucks.

Well, that's sort of a stupid thing to say, isn't it? 'Cause you can't drink a solid, can you?

Soup?

Well, soup is solids suspended in liquid, so it qualifies as a liquid.

See that? Gary was a major at U.V.A. in science.

So occasionally that's of use.

His Facebook status is 'may God have mercy on my boxers.'

Yeah, I saw that. I liked it.

Can move more air by farting.

Those don't open. Those are anti-suicide windows. They only put those in after you started working here, right, Gary?

You're making it sound like a coup.

I'm not gonna say I'm not enjoying the President being in South Africa.

God, wearing some kind of shawl at a lion sanctuary.

Where we gonna find them? Photo op with the normals and the normalistas.

You're not gonna get a good photo holding a book. It's like kids read or something.

Kids are unpredictable. They wet their pants.

We can totally normalize with those guys.

It was like getting off a mild food poisoning.

Look, Amy, I am genuinely sorry that my arrival here has caused you to become so self-conscious and gain a little weight.

Fuck point you.

I want the people who are on time to think that they're late.

No, you're the guy with the big bag of lip balm, Gary. You're fucking Kissinger.

I'm her moon.

Right, with the lip balm if she got shot in the lips. That could crack 'em pretty bad.

Doyle is essential. He's like the Russian doll of the Senate. Comes with little senators inside of him.

Don't shoot. Don't shoot. Please don't shoot. Shoot him. You can shoot him.

He can be a real hogfucker.

You know what I heard? Senator Doyle wears pantyhose. Oh, really? No. But now that you have that image, he's not that scary.

I just won't be photographed eating a hot dog or any other phallic food.

He was gonna sneeze on you and I blocked it.

I don't think we're drenched at this end of the table.

He can be a gold-plated fucking shit gibbon.

I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but can I just say? You kinda look like an asshole.

It was a sneeze bullet. Right in the face. Saved Selina from the bug. Pure instinct. It was like a dirty bomb and I... bam... Dived on it.

Oh, my God. Can I blow you? Uh, yes, you can. I will meet you out in the hallway in a few seconds. Sure, I'll get a stepladder.

Mint. It implies freshness, trust, traditional values.

Oh, swirl. Racial harmony and crossing the aisle.

I mean, that would be like persuading a guy to fist himself.

I got niced.

And it's your job to know that if I say I have it covered, I don't have it covered and you cover me.

I need you to have... make me unsaid it.

Oh, c'mon. Vanilla is a girl's flavor.

Perhaps if you had done your job better, then, oh, I could choose vanilla or chocolate or fucking blueberry with fucking sprinkles on it. But that's not an option for me, okay?

I'm confused. Are we still talking about yoghurt here?

You're gonna kill him and you're gonna do life for murder and I never have to see your face again.

We now go over live to the Vice President for her pissed-off reaction.

It's like Charlie Brown and the football.

You have on a very sweaty shirt. By golly, I do.

Those taxes are eating us alive. Gobble, gobble.

Potus Interruptus, that's what I call it. And I'm gonna tell him.

You tell that shit- for-brains President...

Please, be quiet! The President is experiencing severe chest pains.

So you, my friend, have your cock out at a funeral.

Hey, come on, I major in major.

faultless G.P.S. in guiding our nation.

Holy mother of God and sweet Jesus Christ.

My balls are comprehensively busted here. I'm down to my reserve pair.

That screaming, falling sound is my fucking patience going out the window.

From now on, you bleached, plucked asshole, I am your fucking Siamese stalker.

And you, you gay, Irish fireman... you, you're okay. But you, you I do not like.

Crossed wires. Potus just suffered heartburn after a traditional barbecue at the state function.

It's been an honor to serve such an accomplished understudy, ma'am.

And I've also thrown out all of the Strawberry-Selina. It had a bad taste.

Bite and smile.

Yeah, moving... I'm moving them down.

I can't uncross my legs.