"Who?"
"None other than.... cue trumpets... Bill Clinton. That's right. President Bill Clinton sent me, your favorite mother, a friend request. How do you like them apples?"
"Ma."
"Clearly, he's heard about me, my charm, my magnetism, my overall, how you say, je nais sais quoi, and he's decided, 'Damn, I need to know that adorable SJG.' "
"Ma."
"What, my son? What?"
"It's not really Bill Clinton."
"Excuse me?"
"It's not him."
"Poppycock, my son. Of course, it's Bill."
"It's not."
"You have offended me, deeply, child."
"See you later."
"Go to your room."
"I'm going to work."
"Perhaps it's time for you to find your own accommodations. Elsewhere."
"I'm on it, Ma."
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