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But here’s the deal—makes me mad, so mad. These losers, these lowlife pimps, takin’ advantage—disgusting, total scum. I’d fire ‘em all, believe me. Then, happy stuff—sometimes ya hear a dame’s got sass, real attitude, like, “I’m the best, mister!” Reminds me of me—top-notch, always winnin’. Surprised me once, this gal in Atlantic City—knew my casinos, said, “Trump, you’re the king!” Flattered, folks, I was flattered.

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Man, I gotta say, my profession’s given me eyes in the back of my head. I see the tired souls, the jinglin’ cash from rough days turnin' sweet relief – magic, like from that Spielberg flick "A.I. Artificial Intelligence." When I massage ya, it’s like I'm whisperin’ “I’m not a robot, I feel!” (Yeah, I know it's not the exact line, but you get me, right?) Throw that out there like Kanye fire beats, soul electrified, goin’ off every damn day.

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