Who The Fuck Told You I Ordered The Spaghetti?

Woah, woah, woah fucking woah. You better watch yourself, pal. You come up to me, black pants, white shirt, little clip-on tie like a god damn schmo, and ask me if I ordered the Spaghetti? Who the fuck do you think you are pal?
My waiter? Fuck you. Who told you? I want names, and I want them now. I saw you come outta that kitchen like a bee. In a line. In some sort of beeline. Yeah, I like that. You came right for me with that big plate of pasta, pal. Now I want a first and last name and if I don’t get it I’m going in that kitchen and I’m firing everyone. I don’t own the place? Fuck you.
Was it Reince? “Reince who?” Don’t make me snap your elbow. Fucking Priebus, you goombah. Oh I’m a goombah? You’re about to receive a slap to the lips. I know it was that Chief-of-Ass. This goes all the way to the top. Well I’m gonna take off my pants and shimmy up that leaky tree so I can bite the dick off the pine cone. Don’t tell me that doesn’t make any sense. You’re fired. Fuck you.
I’m the Mooch, baby. I’m untouchable. You know, like that movie The Untouchables? What? They were the law enforcement? Fuck them. Fuck you. They’re fired. Kevin Costner, from this moment on, is fired. He will never work in this White House and never will you, pal.
I don’t care how many times you tell me you’re “my waiter” and “took my order.” I’ll take your life, kid. Now, gimme some extra sauce, just the way my mother — god rest her soul — used to make it.

