Pseudo-New Yorker

Legal humor here.

The conclusion of “Survivor, Manhattan Edition” proved particularly gripping.

“I hope I land on your mother, Jeremy. I want you to know that.”

“I may be falling to the street, but you are falling into the hands of Satan.”

“May I suggest that we postpone the group edit until such time as my ass is resting on the same plane as yours?”

“May the ghost of Margaret Bourke-White rise from its grave to consume you all!”

“Not that it matters, Helen, but you owe me twenty bucks for lunch!”

“Clearly, I’m not cut out for Sterling Cooper Draper Price. But the rest of you are going to fit right in.”

“I hope none of you gets my office.”

“Yeah, it’s cold. But not as cold as your hearts.”

“Okay, you can have the Henderson account. With my blessings. Now dial fucking 911.”