You sure you're ready, Mr. Thrash Metal? Heard you only got two hours of sleep last night.
Yeah, well, with how many times you've got to get up and pee, Mike, I think we're about even.
Hey, have you boys read the latest draft of clean jobs?
Okay, so you've got your critiques all prepared?
So you can be harsh. You don't need to hold back or anything.
Sure. This is class genocide.
This is rich white people and their rich white champion Selina Meyer demanding an unproven solution to an unproven problem so they can sleep better at night. Who works for large polluting companies? Ordinary blue collar Americans. Who will get fired or have their wages cut to pay for these taxes? Ordinary moms and dads. Who will suffer when these companies are no longer competitive because of your high taxes and noncompliance penalties. This is cold, calculated, class genocide perpetrated by someone who is either evil or eligible to be held on a 5150 at a mental health facility. Shame on you, Selina Meyer.
Remember that name. No one will want to call their child by that name. There are no more Adolfs. Soon there will be no more Selinas. You are looking at the last Selina. The Selina who killed America.
Oh, my God, Dan. No more Selinas?
Okay. Quiet, okay? I don't need to hear you. Mike? Acchh...
My chief criticism is that I don't fully understand it. If I don't understand it...
All right, good job, dummy. Sit down.
Dan? Did your boyfriend know anything about this?
I was trying to use Jonah for intelligence!
That's like trying to use a croissant as a fucking dildo!
No, no! Let me be more clear: it doesn't do the job, and it makes a fucking MESS! Get out of my office.
You okay? You seem to be phoning it in a little.
You know what, Amy? I'm the Veep I never wanted to be. I'm talking salad wraps and body mass index to these idiots.
You should really just go and—
Yeah, I know, feel my soul slide out of my ass.
[seeing a pregnancy test Amy is buying for Selina] Holy sh— Are you pregnant? Amy, come on, career-wise, that's like joining Scientology or getting a fucking neck tattoo.
So I guess you're gonna be needing maternity leave. I'd be the obvious choice for your replacement.
That is literally your first thought?
No. My first thought was, "there goes your figure," but I didn't say that because I thought it would be upsetting.
Thanks. You know, if it's a boy, maybe I'll name him after you. Call him Fuck Weasel.
You know, I saw a guitar in there. You play the guitar, right?
No, my guitar is for seduction, not crowd control. Granted, on a good night that's one and the same, but still.
No, we're finding the guitar. That's what we're doing.
Selina's had a miscarriage.
Well, this is good for us.
Free from a major fucking political headache, I'd say.
That's deep space cold, Dan.
Explains why you piss liquid nitrogen.
Okay, there's a White House request to publish all the secret service office personnel records.
Are you kidding me? They want our records now? What are we gonna do?
Well, we have to release those. And that has got me thinking why not release all of our fucking records? Full disclosure.
Yeah, publish everything. All of our emails, all of our phone records.
Right, right, 'cause they won't have time to read everything. I mean, you can't read everything. I don't read half the stuff I'm supposed to.
So by showing that we have nothing to hide, then we can actually hide some stuff.
Dan, what do you think about this?
I just think that this could blow up in all of our faces.
Just because this isn't your baby, you don't care to— God, I am so sorry.
Oh, it's fine. It's fine. I mean, it was like a heavy period. Don't worry about it. All right, you know what, guys? We're doing this. I've made the decision that we are going to release all of our correspondence. Full disclosure is now the name of the game. Mike will fill you in on the rest of it. Right, Mike?
Okay. Thank you. All right, obviously it is not gonna be full disclosure. Okay? It's gonna be partial disclosure light. We don't want to have a paper trail on clean jobs. There can be no- Are you writing that down? Why would you be writing that down? Nothing about Sidney Purcell having access to clean jobs, all right? We have to check Sue's calendar, make sure there are no meetings there that I did-didn't have.
The accidentally racist brochure that we had to shred.
Oh, we're gonna redact that for sure. But the thing is, is that I still think there needs to be something embarrassing in there. You know what I mean?
So it doesn't look as if we've just airbrushed the nipples out of this fucking thing.
I think that Ted is getting ready to dump me. [Amy shakes her head] What is that... nodding thing supposed to mean?
No, no, my— processing information. The nod of my head is like I'm buffering.
Oh, well, once your done buffering, what is it that you're thinking?
I don't know. Maybe the thrill is gone.
Like the thrill of the whole power thing wore off. And now he just doesn't like what's un—
He just doesn't— doesn't really—
Okay, I think you'd better get out of my office.
Hi, everybody. [no one says anything] So no apologies?
Oh, for what? Oh. "Washington Post." Page 17. You've disclosed an email containing birthday gift suggestions for an unnamed White House aide. "Suggestion number one: a cake in the shape of a dick." [people laugh and Mike points to himself] "Suggestion number two: a smart new hat in the shape of a dick."
Oh, that made it in there!
Everybody knows this is me, guys.
