~ What’s your poison, Joe?
~ I think it’s a rum night.
~ Any reason?
~ It’ll encourage me to give him a rum for his money.
~ Joe. You know you’ve got to stop.
~ Yeh, Boss. In January.
~ Messing with his head isn’t going to do any good.
~ It can’t do any harm.
~ True – we’re past that.
~ Gotta have a bit of fun.
~ Hillary could use a bit of fun.
~ I’m not a magician, Boss.
~ Though I have a few riffs on The Glass Ceiling surviving Kristallnacht.
~ Too soon?
~ Not even this time next year.
~ I’ll pretend it’s the rum talking, Joe.
~ OK. I’ll stick to dealing with the 45th.
~ My successor.
~ The old Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief.
~ I’ve put a few “For a good time, call – ” notes in the washrooms.
~ I left Melina’s phone number.
~ Gotta have fun, Barack. There’s only so much rum.
~ And I haven’t even started on Pence.