All seriousness aside...

Gives a clue to who we are. I'd be all worried..

But never mind.

I'd think, will they feature my pancakes on morning in america? What if I use bisquik (quick?) and not the regular ingredients? Will Iowa (never mind how I got to Iowa) disown me with a commercial?

dammit, I hate drinking my ice tea out of those orange glasses.

get me a green glass.

and while you're at it, make sure I get the underwear that doesn't have tags in them.

and for crying out loud, turn the heat up, it's freezing in here.

Kidding, of course, but I'd assume I was speaking to a divided populace at the same time I had the vote. I'm not sure that the division would move me in my choices.


Pie.

Alan! Get this woman out of here.

She's talking about divided populae when I'm trying to take a 5 minute break shooting some nerf ball!

(I president all day and night long, I think I can take a little time to ask someone to bring me a fresh shirt)

Excuse me Mr. President.

I just thought you'd like to know those flannel sheets you ordered from LL Bean arrived..


Oh yeah! I'm going to be nice and warm tonight!

You know how you see the president going to all these important dinners and everything?

You never think about if he asks someone earlier in the day "What are they going to have for supper tonight?"

Like he's not supposed to care about things like that.

Screw that.

I'd be all "Pork loin? Great! I love pork loin. Tell them to make sure to give me extra gravy on the side, and not to make my carrots too al dente."

And if you want to call a long lost buddy, the White House Communications Agency is legendary for dialing up just about anyone, on a moments notice.

No, no, I want to see the desserts. Pie, I did mention pie, if a little late.

I don't care if they weren't planning on having carrots tonight Alan.

I don't want to pull rank here, but did anyone notice who was the president in this room?

oh right, that would be me.

Tell them to make a couple extra pounds of carrots. As soon as they see me eating them, some other people will want them too.

What's wrong with strawberry shortcake?

That goes good with pork loin.

Tim? Hey, guess who this is?

Yeah....that's right....

yeah, great....so, how's it hangin'?

No, I've never liked strawberries, or hardly ever. Ok, once in a while. But mostly they are picked early and not sweet. In my own plot, they grew little worms, cute, must have arrived with the baby plants. People rave about strawberry shortcake and I roll my eyes, at least to myself. People make giant desserts out of poor strawberries. Bitch rests her case.


Ok, ok, already, I adore blackberries .

"It's never too late to order ... Thank you sir."

Shoot... I'd be messin' with people somethin' awful!

"Jim, come here. ........ Pull my finger."

I mean, really, who wouldn't be willing to play along?

yeah, fartin' in full elevators

not bothering to flush - yo, I've got world peace on my mind, a little more important doncha think?

good times

memo to entire staff

Friday will be Hawaiian shirt day....

Okay, folks in the industry, I am the President, so I just want everyone to know that skorts are back in style. Yes, that's right. Looks like a skirt, but you flip it up and it's good for sliding into second base. You got it. Thanks.

An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed.While suffering the agonies of impending death,
He suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite ravioli wafting up the stairs.

He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.

Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen, where if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite ravioli.



Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?


He threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture.

His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the ravioli was already in his mouth.
With a trembling hand he reached up to the edge of the table, when suddenly he was smacked with a wooden spoon by his wife.

'Get Away!' she said.
'Those are for the funeral.'

Oh, man, you know your ravioli.