You don't have a patent?!?!

>You don't have a patent?!?!

Leader of the Conservative Party when?

>You have to pay me 5% royalty perpetually until your last borns first born is dead
>And if you don't you're dead to me

I'll give you 40,000 right now if you go see magnificent seven tomorrow with me. 80,000 if you watch the original and seven samurai at my mansion before.

No thanks Robert, I'm going to go with Kevin's deal

>I’m going to cut in right now because someone needs to stop this charade you’re calling a pitch. When I was a mere boy my mother came home from one of her many business trips to South Africa. Only this time she had brought with her a gift – an antique, in a sense. “It” was an ancient looking African man she referred to as Po’mamba. He stayed with us for many weeks, keeping me awake at night with strange chanting. I became so frustrated by the never ending stream of nonsensical noise my angry tears began to stain the front of my child-fitted Armani suits. On the fourth week, I came home from school early on account of Butch Charleston ruining my favorite handkerchief at recess. But the noises I heard from my manor were different that day. Peeking in the nearest window, I saw my mother surrounded by dark shapes, Po’mamba’s back against the glass. His chanting drowned out the sounds of my mother as I watched the surging black mass with confusion – until I realized it was a group of men. African men, slamming their cocks into my mother’s every orifice as she begged for more through two throbbing members occupying her mouth. All noise suddenly stopped. Po’mamba stepped forward, ripping off the tattered cloth that covered his crotch. An implausibly large penis flopped down between his legs which he guided into my mother’s bruised womanhood. The other gentlemen continued the chants. After what seemed like hours, Po’mamba released his load which oozed out through the small pockets of empty space between her flesh folds and his cock. A small speck of his thick semen fell from his glands as he exited, landing on the living room’s priceless Isfahan carpet. My day was perfect before your appearance here Mr. Wilson. I had breakfast with Buffet and Trump. I even made sweet love to Barbara on Lincoln’s original bed earlier. Your deal is the nigger semen stain on my priceless rug of a day. And for that reason, I’m out.

>Not Brian jean

>Have you ever drank a glass of black rhinoceros blood? Of course not, I was just being colloquial to start this story with an anecdote. The first time I had a glass I was in South Africa, taking a celebratory drink in Johannesburg after completing a successful hunt. You see, in South Africa they don't hunt lion, or elephant. We hunted a more dangerous game: the kaffir, or black man. I finally had a 7 year old boy cornered in an Oingo Bongo merchandise warehouse when the thoughts passed through my mind: Should I pull the trigger? Can I ever come back to who I was before this moment? I pulled the trigger, made my first 100 million dollars. This is something you need to ask yourself: can I pull the trigger on this deal and make the right choice? 10% funding for 85% ownership and prima nocte rights to your daughters.

You have until the end of this sentence to accept my offer, and for that reason, I'm out.

He doesnt speak frog