Østerbro er endnu hvidere, end det plejer at være. I den amerikanske ambassade på Dag Hammerskjolds Alle er der et helt lokale fuldt af fede, hvide mænd. De ligner overhovedet ikke Michael Moore.
Bob’s boss: Goddamned guys, I’ve got the White House breathing down my neck. This weather machine could destroy all of America overnight if it falls into the wrong hands. Now I want some goddamned answers: Who stole the weather machine from the Danes – gooks? VC Commibastards?
Bob: Well sir, the thing is we don’t know…
Bob’s boss: Liberals? I hate fucking liberals.
Bob: We don’t know, boss.
Bob’s boss: It’s your job to know, Bob.
Bob: Yes boss.
Bob’s boss: Okay, let’s think, people. We’ve got the Danish security services doped on marihuana, an ice age hanging over our heads and not a fucking clue. Is this pretty much the situation, Bob?
Bob: Yes boss.
Bob’s boss: Let’s go back to the crime scene. Whoever stole the bloody thing must have left some sort of trace. If a hair fell out of their nose, I want it on my desk. Second, I want a list of people with a motive. Anyone. And I want a tail on every foreign speaking person in this town. Got it, Bob?
Bob: Yes boss.
Bob’s boss: Especially the French. I hate the fucking frogs.
Bob: Yes boss.
Bob’s boss: And the Jews, they give me the creeps. Fucking kikes.
Bob: Whatever you say, boss.
Bob’s boss: Okay, let’s get this show on the road, people. Where the hell’s my coffee, Bob?
Bob: Here you go, boss. I was thinking, boss…
Bob’s boss: That’s your job, Bob.
Bob: Right, I was thinking, this could be like 9.11 all over again, only with ice. And this time, we have a chance to stop them. I just want you to know, you can count on me, boss.
Bob’s boss: Nice, but no oscar, Bob. Just get the fucking bastards. I need to get the hell out of this godforsaken place.
Bob’s boss
