UPDATE:
He may be a demented old war criminal, but he’s a funny demented old war criminal. And in my book, that still counts for something.
—
(Scene: A somewhat seedy looking diner somewhere outside of Houston, Texas. A line of nattily dressed corporate vice presidents — looking distinctly out of place in such a dive — sit at the counter reading menus. Behind the counter, Jack Abramoff, in apron and paper cap, is taking orders. There’s a pass through in the wall behind him, and in the kitchen we see a sweaty Tom DeLay, in a greasy apron and paper cap, working the grill.)
…
Order Up (you wil love this meal)