“Leave the ice cream where it is, Junior.”
“Five second rule!”
“No, that doesn’t apply to soft-serve ice cream. Where did you even get that?”
“My other lawyer’s office.”
“How many lawyers did you see today?”
“Five? Six? Wait. Does it count if they’re not lawyers in America? Like they were from another–”
“STOP TALKING. I don’t wanna hear it! I am just your divorce attorney. Please don’t mention any other cases you may or may not have going on.”
“Do you have any dirt on Hillary Clinton?”
“Junior, let’s talk about the divorce. You have five children.”
“Yeah, they’re great kids. There’s Junior, Jr., Donaldina. Uh. Tall girl. Oh, one of ’em smells real weird. And I think the fifth is named Snow Shovel.”
“I’m almost positive your kid’s name is not Snow Shovel.”
“It’s something. I know my wife gave him a name. She’s real good with the kids like that: they all got names, and hands, and everything.”
“She sounds wonderful. What about custody?”
“It’s too rich and sweet for me.”
“Not custard, Junior. Custody. Who gets the kids.”
“Can we give them to Batman?”
“No.”
“But they’d be Robins!”
“No.”
“Fine. I’ll take them.”
“You want custody of your children? You want to take care of them?”
“Sure. One question.”
“Is the question ‘How do you take care of a child?'”
…
“Are you a psychic? If you’re a psychic, you have to tell me. That’s the law.”
“Let’s circle back to the custody. How many houses do you own?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s the White House…”
“You don’t own the White House.”
“It’s a Trump Organization property.”
“Besides the White House.”
“Like, three or four?”
“Is it three or four?”
“Are we counting treehouses?”
“Do you live in it?”
“I go there when I get sad.”
“We’re not counting it.”
“I don’t know. Three or four. I don’t have, like, too many houses. Just enough. I have the right amount of houses.”
“What about cars?”
“I liked the second one the best. Mater’s funny.”
“Not the movie Cars, Junior. Automobiles. How many do you own?”
“I have a Jeep. Sometimes, when I’m too sad even for the treehouse, I’ll put on a flannel and drive out to the woods to sit on a stump.”
“We’ve all seen the picture.”
“And I have a Mercedes, which is a business car, because I am a businessman.”
“Okay.”
“And I have a Lada. Cutest little sucker.”
“A Lada? Why the hell would you have a Lada?”
“A Russian oligarch gave it to me as a gift after we–”
“STOP TALKING.”
“It’s a funny story! We were in Dubai, and–”
“Shut up! Just talk to me about the divorce! Nothing else.”
“I still wanna pick up my ice cream.”
“Leave the ice cream on the floor, dammit. What about alimony?”
“My wife doesn’t know about Alimony.”
“Is Alimony a stripper?”
“No. She’s a feature dancer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That means she’s the star.”
“The money, Junior. What are we going to do about the money?”
“The money? Oh, right. Wait, hold on. I want to–”
PAPER UNFOLDING NOISE
“–‘give that bitch wife of yours everything so that cocksucker Mueller can’t come after it.'”
PAPER REFOLDING NOISE
“That is what I want.”
“Goddamn you, Junior.”
INTERCOM NOISE
“Sir, there’s a phone call for you.”
“Is it Robert Mueller?”
“How did you guess?”
“I’m a psychic.”
“I knew it!”
“Shut up, Junior.
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