fic: it's rarely sunny in philadelphia (the office/30 rock)
it's rarely sunny in philadelphia
the office/30 rock. a little known fact is that Dunder-Mifflin is also a subsidiary of the Sheinhardt Wig Company. ensemble. 2145 words. pg.
notes: written for festschrift. and for the record - this story is pure ridiculousness, lol. no real spoilers for either show.
It all starts, like most things, with a typo.
“Ohhh, boy,” Michael Scott whistles. He might bounce on his heels a little, try not to let the cameras capture the nerves and the fear and the sweat beading across his forehead.
“This is so not good. Nope. Not good at all.”
His phone rings.
CUT TO OFFICE OF JACK DONAGHY, NYC -
It’s a Thursday. Thursday’s are the worst kind of day for bad things to happen if you ask Liz. The weekend is that close, but still that far away, and Fridays are show days and Thursdays always somehow end up being that day where the shit hits the fan, or whatever other bad, bad news cliché you can think of.
This Thursday really isn’t any different.
“Lemon,” Jack says, and leans forward on his elbows against the desk, a desk, for the record, made of some kind of rich, expensive, fancy wood and not that fake crap Liz has down in her office. “I want to take you on a journey.”
“Oh. Oh, boy. It’s like the opening sequence for Reading Rainbow.”
“I am going to disregard that unnecessary and entirely inapplicable PBS reference and cut to the chase here. Time is not on our side -we have a real problem on our hands, Lemon.”
He clears his throat. “Now. Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to take the problem to them. Ensure them that the situation is on their own turf, lull them into a false sense of security, and just like that!” Here, there is a quick snap of his fingers and an increasing look of bewilderment on Liz’s face. “Domination! The clutch and the crunch of the iron fist in our grasp as we continue to control and manhandle the situation.”
“Are you planning on negotiating with them, or just assaulting them?”
“One in the same, Lemon.”
“And wait, hold up a second, who is this we you insist on referring to?”
“Us, Lemon. You, and me, and Tracy, as it were. Most likely Grizz and Dot Com - Tre never travels far without their unfailing moral support - and perhaps Kenneth. NBC will want to keep tabs on us, all subsidiaries of the Sheinhardt Wig Company do. Goes with the territory.”
At this particular juncture, Liz is officially lost, and while she may not be well-versed in the fine and delicate art of corporate strategy, she is pretty sure none of this is making an ounce of business sense.
“Huh?”
“‘Huh’ is not a word, Lemon. But I understand what you meant, ineloquent phrasing aside. You are coming with me, and though it is certainly not a part of your job description, it will serve as a valuable life lesson. And Tracy, well, Tracy is coming simply because this whole situation is really his doing. If we must suffer the drab and uninspiring landscape of Scranton, Pennsylvania, he must as well.”
FLASHBACK TO TRACY -
Footage not found.
CUT TO JACK’S OFFICE -
“Wait, hold up. You’re telling me that we’re scrambling here because of a paper emergency?”
Jack holds up an index finger, his head cocked in its direction. “None of that guff, Lemon. It’s not attractive. Besides, disasters, calamities and the unexpected are all prone to occur in varying shapes, sizes and templates.”
Liz sighs, angrily, if that’s possible.
“You do realize we still have a show tomorrow, right?”
“Of course. TGS with Tracy Jordan, try as I might, still persists as my upmost and top priority, Lemon. Never question that.”
“Right. So, I can’t really tell if that was meant to be sarcastic or not, Jack.”
“We will be back with plenty of time to spare. Now. There are eight large crates of misappropriated stationery and promotional banners and… what-have-you down in Tracy’s dressing room. See if you can do something about that before we leave.”
Liz groans.
CUT TO DUNDER-MIFFLIN, SCRANTON OFFICE -
The news travels quickly.
“Attention! Attention!” Michael calls, a rolled-up sheet of paper as a makeshift megaphone. It doesn’t do much to amplify his voice. Not like he wasn’t shouting anyway. “Big news here at Dunder-Mifflin, friends, co-workers. Who Dat Ninja himself is coming…here! To the Scranton office!”
His announcement is met largely with blank expressions and half of Stanley’s donut falls into his coffee cup. There’s a splash, and a drawl of “now that is a shame,” from Stanley.
“Do you mean that Jackie Chan, he’s coming here?” Creed asks, a strange note of nervousness present in his voice.
Michael frowns. “Ahhhh, no. Wrong ninja.”
Creed shakes his head and reclines in his seat. “That’s a good thing. I’ve never crossed any other ninja.”
Michael’s frown deepens. “Come on, you guys! Who Dat Ninja! Fat Bitch! Black Cop/White Cop! Honky Grandma Be Trippin'!”
There is a shriek.
“O! M! Effing! G! Tracy Jordan!” Kelly claps her hands together and drops the contents of a file folder on the floor in the process.
Jim’s mouth stretches in a kind of grimace and he appears to mouth the word, “ohhh.” Pam tries not to giggle from behind her desk. Her computer is open to the Yahoo! front page; one of the smaller headlines reads, “Entertainer Jordan Scolded By Mayor For Litter Crime.” It doesn’t make much sense, and it’s a rather lengthy headline.
“Oh. My. God. You guys,” and Kelly’s voice has taken on that shrill tone, the one Animal Planet should do a special on, if only they had either the guts or the ear plugs, perhaps both, because in all biological honesty it is a sound only dogs should be able to hear. Alas -
“I mean, do you even, like, understand the total, I don’t know, awesomeness of this? Tracy! Jordan!”
CUT TO ANGELA -
“I refuse to support any actor, musician, magician or entertainer who misappropriates ancient samurai and ninja culture and perpetuates vile and ill stereotypes concerning said culture.
“Also, the words ‘honky’” - note: there are air quotes attached, and upon the next word she utters, her voice has dropped to a low and shameful pitch - “and ‘bitch.’ It is morally reprehensible and I refuse to believe we are a part of any corporation that supports and funds such sophomoric antics.”
She folds her hands in her lap.
CUT TO KEVIN -
““Werewolf Bar Mitzvah” changed. My. Life.”
CUT BACK TO THE MAIN OFFICE -
Kelly’s arms are flailing and Stanley is trying to fish his fast-disintegrating donut out of his Styrofoam coffee cup. Dwight is double-checking the contents of his desk drawer; he eyes the ninja stars in the third drawer, nods once, and then closes the drawer only to open it just a crack again a few moments later.
“Oh! It could be like a Cinderella story or something! And he could meet me! And we’d fall in love! And I’d get to attend the People’s Choice Awards with him! And maybe meet Conan!”
Kelly pauses.
“And then Conan would fall in love with me!”
At this point, no one is listening to her. Michael has retreated to his office and between the blinds he can be spotted; there is a copy of Jack Attack: The Art of Aggression in Business open on his desk while he surfs Wikipedia for the finer points of this business manual without ever actually having to read it.
CUT TO SOMEWHERE ON ROUTE 80 -
“If you wear moon boots in a funhouse you’re liable to experience something short of gravity. Did you know that, Liz Lemon? It escapes through your soles, but that’s just hearsay. Kind of like if you chew bubblegum in an elevator going down, your brain will explode out your ears.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true, Tre.”
“Tell that to Donny Osmond.”
“But, Mr. Jordan! Mr. Osmond is still alive and kicking! Singing, too!”
“Nah, nah, Ken. That’s just a clone. NASA did that. I think he got a pair of moon boots out of the deal.”
A weird silence descends inside the Escalade. Kenneth hums along with the radio, which just so happens to be a Carly Simon song. Jack’s eyes and attention remain glued to his Blackberry.
Tracy is the first to break the silence. This is hardly a surprise.
“The only thing good about Pennsylvania is the bell with the crack. That, and the Quaker oatmeal man, for sure.”
Liz sighs.
CUT BACK TO KEVIN -
“It’s a genius song, man.”
He starts to sing.
“Werewolf Bar Mitzvah! Spooky, scary! Boys becoming men, men becoming wolves!”
He howls.
CUT TO SCRANTON MAIN OFFICE -
“What is up, Scratch n’ Sniff? Tracy Jordan is in the house!”
Grizz and Dot Com's combined height and bulk block out the rest of the doorway. Tracy swaggers in, a "hey, pretty mama," thrown Angela's way from which she recoils. He stops in front of Michael.
"You the boss man?"
"Yes, sir! At your service, my dear Mr. Jordan." Michael bows and his voice has taken on a kind of faux-British accent.
“Yeah, me and you are gonna have words, son. Words. Words we all gonna spell proper now, you hear? Otherwise I’m gonna be one mad motha and I guarantee you, Skippy, you won’t be liking that none.”
Phyllis giggles.
“Yeah, she knows what’s up. Hey, lady, which direction is the Crack Bell?”
Meredith snorts. Stanley shakes his head, mutters something about stereotypes.
“If you don’t mind,” Jack hedges, a hand firm on Tracy’s red leather jacket, “I thought I’d discuss the matter privately with Mr. Scott here first.” Jack tips his head knowingly.
Tracy purses his lips. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you do that, Donaghy.”
“After you, mon frère,” Michael says, the door to his office held open.
As Jack passes through he catches Liz’s eye, holds up a hand and closes it into a fist.
Liz’s smile looks more akin to the side-effect of a bad root canal than friendly or reassuring, whichever it was she was aiming for.
"Look at all the paper clips!" Kenneth chirps.
CUT TO MICHAEL’S OFFICE -
The door is shut and the blinds are drawn and the silhouette of Jack Donaghy can be seen through the glass, pacing the room.
Michael Scott’s shoulders appear to be slumping.
CUT TO THE MAIN OFFICE -
Tracy eyes the bowl of jelly beans on Pam’s desk warily.
“Would…you like one?” she asks, a game of solitaire still open on her screen and a lone red light flashing on the phone.
Tracy continues checking out the bowl of jelly beans, tipping a little closer, pulling back, seemingly sniffing the air (which, ew, Pam thinks) and finally shakes his head. According to the clock on the corner of her solitaire game 110 seconds have passed, but Pam is pretty sure 40 or so of those seconds were there before Tracy and the jelly beans and this really awkward dance around them.
“Nah, Beezy, I’m gonna pass.” He leans forward, all conspiratorial. “I only eat grapes on Wednesdays.”
“Oh,” and it’s kind of like dealing with Michael, all quick nods and faux understandings on her part. “And it’s Beesly. Pam. Beesly.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Easy like Sunday morning!”
Tracy throws his hands up in the air and does a little hop, skip, leap away from Pam, the counter and the jelly beans.
Angela scowls in her corner. Kelly might be swooning.
Dwight opens his draw scarcely an inch, eyes the numchucks sitting there. Things like insurance and self-protection are really important assets here at Dunder-Mifflin.
During all of this, Grizz and Dot Com are deep in conversation with Toby in the corner, and Liz just kind of hovers around the office.
Jim approaches her.
Indistinct yelling can be heard from Michael’s office. There is the slamming of something.
“Hi,” he offers.
“Hi.” There is a pause. “I’m Liz. Liz Lemon.”
He shakes her hand. “Jim. Jim Halpert.”
The quiet between them stretches, more shouting from Michael’s office - it kind of sounds like no! no! absolutely not! but who knows - and Liz bounces on the balls of her feet.
“You’re really, really tall. You know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Meredith is trying to lick Kenneth’s neck.
CUT TO MICHAEL -
“It could have gone better.” He smiles, shrugs, nods. “It could have gone worse.”
A beat passes.
“No. No, it really couldn’t have gone worse.”
CUT TO JACK -
“I don’t understand what we’re trying to do here. You want me to tell you about the just now concluded business meeting between a colleague and I? That hardly seems ethical.”
Jack starts to fidget with his tie.
“Is this thing…is it on?” His hands clench up, elbows bent, in fists. “It is? Oh. Right. It’s on?”
CUT TO THE OPEN DOOR OF MICHAEL’S OFFICE -
Michael rests a hand on the crook of Jack’s elbow, a little tentative, and both men stare at it for a moment. Michael removes it quickly; Jack clears his throat.
“Mr. Donaghy, sir. Master!” he says, the last word in some weird, mock, deep throat thing going on, like maybe he should give Sci-Fi late night a rest.
Jack only arches his eyebrows, inclines his head a little to the right.
“How much sway do you have over a certain Mr. Jon Stewart?”
Jack smiles.
"What do you want to know?"
CUT TO TRACY -
“I bet you anything, back in the day? Dinosaurs used vacuum cleaners for toothbrushes. I guarantee it. Dental hygiene is important for all the species, all the time.”
CUT TO LIZ -
“Oy vey.”
fin
the office/30 rock. a little known fact is that Dunder-Mifflin is also a subsidiary of the Sheinhardt Wig Company. ensemble. 2145 words. pg.
notes: written for festschrift. and for the record - this story is pure ridiculousness, lol. no real spoilers for either show.
It all starts, like most things, with a typo.
“Ohhh, boy,” Michael Scott whistles. He might bounce on his heels a little, try not to let the cameras capture the nerves and the fear and the sweat beading across his forehead.
“This is so not good. Nope. Not good at all.”
His phone rings.
CUT TO OFFICE OF JACK DONAGHY, NYC -
It’s a Thursday. Thursday’s are the worst kind of day for bad things to happen if you ask Liz. The weekend is that close, but still that far away, and Fridays are show days and Thursdays always somehow end up being that day where the shit hits the fan, or whatever other bad, bad news cliché you can think of.
This Thursday really isn’t any different.
“Lemon,” Jack says, and leans forward on his elbows against the desk, a desk, for the record, made of some kind of rich, expensive, fancy wood and not that fake crap Liz has down in her office. “I want to take you on a journey.”
“Oh. Oh, boy. It’s like the opening sequence for Reading Rainbow.”
“I am going to disregard that unnecessary and entirely inapplicable PBS reference and cut to the chase here. Time is not on our side -we have a real problem on our hands, Lemon.”
He clears his throat. “Now. Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to take the problem to them. Ensure them that the situation is on their own turf, lull them into a false sense of security, and just like that!” Here, there is a quick snap of his fingers and an increasing look of bewilderment on Liz’s face. “Domination! The clutch and the crunch of the iron fist in our grasp as we continue to control and manhandle the situation.”
“Are you planning on negotiating with them, or just assaulting them?”
“One in the same, Lemon.”
“And wait, hold up a second, who is this we you insist on referring to?”
“Us, Lemon. You, and me, and Tracy, as it were. Most likely Grizz and Dot Com - Tre never travels far without their unfailing moral support - and perhaps Kenneth. NBC will want to keep tabs on us, all subsidiaries of the Sheinhardt Wig Company do. Goes with the territory.”
At this particular juncture, Liz is officially lost, and while she may not be well-versed in the fine and delicate art of corporate strategy, she is pretty sure none of this is making an ounce of business sense.
“Huh?”
“‘Huh’ is not a word, Lemon. But I understand what you meant, ineloquent phrasing aside. You are coming with me, and though it is certainly not a part of your job description, it will serve as a valuable life lesson. And Tracy, well, Tracy is coming simply because this whole situation is really his doing. If we must suffer the drab and uninspiring landscape of Scranton, Pennsylvania, he must as well.”
FLASHBACK TO TRACY -
Footage not found.
CUT TO JACK’S OFFICE -
“Wait, hold up. You’re telling me that we’re scrambling here because of a paper emergency?”
Jack holds up an index finger, his head cocked in its direction. “None of that guff, Lemon. It’s not attractive. Besides, disasters, calamities and the unexpected are all prone to occur in varying shapes, sizes and templates.”
Liz sighs, angrily, if that’s possible.
“You do realize we still have a show tomorrow, right?”
“Of course. TGS with Tracy Jordan, try as I might, still persists as my upmost and top priority, Lemon. Never question that.”
“Right. So, I can’t really tell if that was meant to be sarcastic or not, Jack.”
“We will be back with plenty of time to spare. Now. There are eight large crates of misappropriated stationery and promotional banners and… what-have-you down in Tracy’s dressing room. See if you can do something about that before we leave.”
Liz groans.
CUT TO DUNDER-MIFFLIN, SCRANTON OFFICE -
The news travels quickly.
“Attention! Attention!” Michael calls, a rolled-up sheet of paper as a makeshift megaphone. It doesn’t do much to amplify his voice. Not like he wasn’t shouting anyway. “Big news here at Dunder-Mifflin, friends, co-workers. Who Dat Ninja himself is coming…here! To the Scranton office!”
His announcement is met largely with blank expressions and half of Stanley’s donut falls into his coffee cup. There’s a splash, and a drawl of “now that is a shame,” from Stanley.
“Do you mean that Jackie Chan, he’s coming here?” Creed asks, a strange note of nervousness present in his voice.
Michael frowns. “Ahhhh, no. Wrong ninja.”
Creed shakes his head and reclines in his seat. “That’s a good thing. I’ve never crossed any other ninja.”
Michael’s frown deepens. “Come on, you guys! Who Dat Ninja! Fat Bitch! Black Cop/White Cop! Honky Grandma Be Trippin'!”
There is a shriek.
“O! M! Effing! G! Tracy Jordan!” Kelly claps her hands together and drops the contents of a file folder on the floor in the process.
Jim’s mouth stretches in a kind of grimace and he appears to mouth the word, “ohhh.” Pam tries not to giggle from behind her desk. Her computer is open to the Yahoo! front page; one of the smaller headlines reads, “Entertainer Jordan Scolded By Mayor For Litter Crime.” It doesn’t make much sense, and it’s a rather lengthy headline.
“Oh. My. God. You guys,” and Kelly’s voice has taken on that shrill tone, the one Animal Planet should do a special on, if only they had either the guts or the ear plugs, perhaps both, because in all biological honesty it is a sound only dogs should be able to hear. Alas -
“I mean, do you even, like, understand the total, I don’t know, awesomeness of this? Tracy! Jordan!”
CUT TO ANGELA -
“I refuse to support any actor, musician, magician or entertainer who misappropriates ancient samurai and ninja culture and perpetuates vile and ill stereotypes concerning said culture.
“Also, the words ‘honky’” - note: there are air quotes attached, and upon the next word she utters, her voice has dropped to a low and shameful pitch - “and ‘bitch.’ It is morally reprehensible and I refuse to believe we are a part of any corporation that supports and funds such sophomoric antics.”
She folds her hands in her lap.
CUT TO KEVIN -
““Werewolf Bar Mitzvah” changed. My. Life.”
CUT BACK TO THE MAIN OFFICE -
Kelly’s arms are flailing and Stanley is trying to fish his fast-disintegrating donut out of his Styrofoam coffee cup. Dwight is double-checking the contents of his desk drawer; he eyes the ninja stars in the third drawer, nods once, and then closes the drawer only to open it just a crack again a few moments later.
“Oh! It could be like a Cinderella story or something! And he could meet me! And we’d fall in love! And I’d get to attend the People’s Choice Awards with him! And maybe meet Conan!”
Kelly pauses.
“And then Conan would fall in love with me!”
At this point, no one is listening to her. Michael has retreated to his office and between the blinds he can be spotted; there is a copy of Jack Attack: The Art of Aggression in Business open on his desk while he surfs Wikipedia for the finer points of this business manual without ever actually having to read it.
CUT TO SOMEWHERE ON ROUTE 80 -
“If you wear moon boots in a funhouse you’re liable to experience something short of gravity. Did you know that, Liz Lemon? It escapes through your soles, but that’s just hearsay. Kind of like if you chew bubblegum in an elevator going down, your brain will explode out your ears.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true, Tre.”
“Tell that to Donny Osmond.”
“But, Mr. Jordan! Mr. Osmond is still alive and kicking! Singing, too!”
“Nah, nah, Ken. That’s just a clone. NASA did that. I think he got a pair of moon boots out of the deal.”
A weird silence descends inside the Escalade. Kenneth hums along with the radio, which just so happens to be a Carly Simon song. Jack’s eyes and attention remain glued to his Blackberry.
Tracy is the first to break the silence. This is hardly a surprise.
“The only thing good about Pennsylvania is the bell with the crack. That, and the Quaker oatmeal man, for sure.”
Liz sighs.
CUT BACK TO KEVIN -
“It’s a genius song, man.”
He starts to sing.
“Werewolf Bar Mitzvah! Spooky, scary! Boys becoming men, men becoming wolves!”
He howls.
CUT TO SCRANTON MAIN OFFICE -
“What is up, Scratch n’ Sniff? Tracy Jordan is in the house!”
Grizz and Dot Com's combined height and bulk block out the rest of the doorway. Tracy swaggers in, a "hey, pretty mama," thrown Angela's way from which she recoils. He stops in front of Michael.
"You the boss man?"
"Yes, sir! At your service, my dear Mr. Jordan." Michael bows and his voice has taken on a kind of faux-British accent.
“Yeah, me and you are gonna have words, son. Words. Words we all gonna spell proper now, you hear? Otherwise I’m gonna be one mad motha and I guarantee you, Skippy, you won’t be liking that none.”
Phyllis giggles.
“Yeah, she knows what’s up. Hey, lady, which direction is the Crack Bell?”
Meredith snorts. Stanley shakes his head, mutters something about stereotypes.
“If you don’t mind,” Jack hedges, a hand firm on Tracy’s red leather jacket, “I thought I’d discuss the matter privately with Mr. Scott here first.” Jack tips his head knowingly.
Tracy purses his lips. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you do that, Donaghy.”
“After you, mon frère,” Michael says, the door to his office held open.
As Jack passes through he catches Liz’s eye, holds up a hand and closes it into a fist.
Liz’s smile looks more akin to the side-effect of a bad root canal than friendly or reassuring, whichever it was she was aiming for.
"Look at all the paper clips!" Kenneth chirps.
CUT TO MICHAEL’S OFFICE -
The door is shut and the blinds are drawn and the silhouette of Jack Donaghy can be seen through the glass, pacing the room.
Michael Scott’s shoulders appear to be slumping.
CUT TO THE MAIN OFFICE -
Tracy eyes the bowl of jelly beans on Pam’s desk warily.
“Would…you like one?” she asks, a game of solitaire still open on her screen and a lone red light flashing on the phone.
Tracy continues checking out the bowl of jelly beans, tipping a little closer, pulling back, seemingly sniffing the air (which, ew, Pam thinks) and finally shakes his head. According to the clock on the corner of her solitaire game 110 seconds have passed, but Pam is pretty sure 40 or so of those seconds were there before Tracy and the jelly beans and this really awkward dance around them.
“Nah, Beezy, I’m gonna pass.” He leans forward, all conspiratorial. “I only eat grapes on Wednesdays.”
“Oh,” and it’s kind of like dealing with Michael, all quick nods and faux understandings on her part. “And it’s Beesly. Pam. Beesly.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Easy like Sunday morning!”
Tracy throws his hands up in the air and does a little hop, skip, leap away from Pam, the counter and the jelly beans.
Angela scowls in her corner. Kelly might be swooning.
Dwight opens his draw scarcely an inch, eyes the numchucks sitting there. Things like insurance and self-protection are really important assets here at Dunder-Mifflin.
During all of this, Grizz and Dot Com are deep in conversation with Toby in the corner, and Liz just kind of hovers around the office.
Jim approaches her.
Indistinct yelling can be heard from Michael’s office. There is the slamming of something.
“Hi,” he offers.
“Hi.” There is a pause. “I’m Liz. Liz Lemon.”
He shakes her hand. “Jim. Jim Halpert.”
The quiet between them stretches, more shouting from Michael’s office - it kind of sounds like no! no! absolutely not! but who knows - and Liz bounces on the balls of her feet.
“You’re really, really tall. You know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Meredith is trying to lick Kenneth’s neck.
CUT TO MICHAEL -
“It could have gone better.” He smiles, shrugs, nods. “It could have gone worse.”
A beat passes.
“No. No, it really couldn’t have gone worse.”
CUT TO JACK -
“I don’t understand what we’re trying to do here. You want me to tell you about the just now concluded business meeting between a colleague and I? That hardly seems ethical.”
Jack starts to fidget with his tie.
“Is this thing…is it on?” His hands clench up, elbows bent, in fists. “It is? Oh. Right. It’s on?”
CUT TO THE OPEN DOOR OF MICHAEL’S OFFICE -
Michael rests a hand on the crook of Jack’s elbow, a little tentative, and both men stare at it for a moment. Michael removes it quickly; Jack clears his throat.
“Mr. Donaghy, sir. Master!” he says, the last word in some weird, mock, deep throat thing going on, like maybe he should give Sci-Fi late night a rest.
Jack only arches his eyebrows, inclines his head a little to the right.
“How much sway do you have over a certain Mr. Jon Stewart?”
Jack smiles.
"What do you want to know?"
CUT TO TRACY -
“I bet you anything, back in the day? Dinosaurs used vacuum cleaners for toothbrushes. I guarantee it. Dental hygiene is important for all the species, all the time.”
CUT TO LIZ -
“Oy vey.”
fin