Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Slim is sitting in the family room with his mother, who is watching “Seinfeld” reruns and drinking a wine spritzer on a Friday afternoon.
SLIM: Oh fuck! I would totally rape that faggot-ass midget if he tried to pull that shit with me.
WIFE: I believe the politically correct term today is “little person.”
SLIM: I believe the politically correct term is shut the fuck up, you fucking nosy cunt.
WIFE (laughing): Stupid me, always correcting potty mouths. It’s that gosh-darned liberal media training us all to be overly sensitive.
SLIM: Abso-fucking-lutely. Media fags don’t know how kids today actually talk.
WIFE: They should rent Juno and get teen talk all up in their brainizzles.
SLIM: Whatever. Dude! That midget sort of looks like that one guy from the Orange Glo commercials, only more midgety.
WIFE: Yum, that Billy Mays really double-clicks my mouse.
SLIM: Sick! That is sick as shit! I’m gonna have to drink a liter of Goldschlager to erase that image from my head.
Raymond enters holding a bag from his erotica store, Fantasy Experience.
WIFE: Sup, boo? How was your day at work?
RAYMOND: Oh, you know, the usual: a fistfight broke out in the jackoff booth after a customer thought his neighbor was trying to spy on him waxing his dolphin. Some dyke tried to return a used tit clamp and nearly FUPA-slammed me when I explained why that was illegal.
SLIM: Dude, gently used sex toys are fucking gay.
RAYMOND: I mean, a used tit clamp is far less unsavory than a soiled set of anal beads, but the law’s the law. I put my foot down.
SLIM: You should have put it up her fatass. Anyway, I gotta go.
RAYMOND: What’s on the menu for tonight? Got a hot date?
SLIM: Dude, dates are fucking gay. Nobody goes on dates anymore. I’m going to hang out with my friends, drink some beer, watch that figure skating shit with Pink Floyd—you know.
RAYMOND: Oh, that reminds me . . .
He hands Slim the bag.
RAYMOND: Here are some slightly irregular novelty thongs I found in a shipment today. They’re fully functional, although the lining has slightly perished. In this economy, I’m not going to sell anything but a perfect product.
SLIM: Thanks. Later.
RAYMOND: Do people really not go on dates anymore? Sometimes I feel like the world changed while I wasn’t looking.
WIFE: I guess people skip the dinner and the movie and get straight to the hanky-panky nowadays.
RAYMOND: And our boy doesn’t seem to be getting any pussy, which is really starting to worry me. I just don’t know what to do about it.
WIFE: Why worry so much? There’s nothing unusual about teenage boys wanting to hang out together wearing thongs instead of trying to woo hot, horny chicks.
RAYMOND: I guess. Maybe I’ll encourage him to try out one of the Cyberskin pink lips pussy strokers I sell in my shop. It could give him a real jones for the real thing.
WIFE: Or it could obviate that need.
RAYMOND: True. This is a real source of consternation. Is this that episode where the midget fucks over Kramer? I love that one!
Saggy, Ratso, and Chunky are hanging out in Saggy and Ratso’s basement, drinking PBR tallboys and listening to the Allman Brothers. Saggy is playing Mario Kart 64.
Slim enters carrying the bag of thongs.
RATSO: Dude, you just got raped so hard by that banana peel. You gotta get back at that fucker, Yoshi.
SLIM: Hey. We got some extra thongs we can’t sell at my job.
RATSO: Awesome! Pass that shit over here!
CHUNKY: Once you try thongs, you will never go back to normal underwear.
RATSO: What is “normal” underwear for your family? Fucking strips of dishrags held together with duct tape?
CHUNKY: Fuck you!
RATSO: Ooh, this silver one is pretty tight. Let’s see if it fits.
He takes off his pants and puts on the thong over his boxer briefs.
RATSO: Not bad.
CHUNKY: Not fucking bad at all. I guess it’s made for dudes with no ass.
SLIM: Speaking of which, did you guys see that 13-year-old dad in England? That shit is completely fucked up.
RATSO: Yeah, that fucker looks like a 6-year-old fag.
SLIM: It’s hard to believe that dude would take off his pants to reveal hairy, functional genitalia—I’ll tell you that much.
RATSO: As gay as that sounds, it’s fucking true.
CHUNKY: Shit yes. The ship cannot sail without se(a)men. Right, Slim? Or did you go through “the change” last weekend?
SLIM: Fuck you, you poor white trash piece of shit! I’ve been able to . . . I don’t need to tell you fuckers anything. Fags.
CHUNKY: Just remember: dry orgasms don’t count.
SAGGY: Yes! Shrunk those homo racer fucks!
RATSO: Be right back.
Slim and Chunky drink and watch Saggy play video games in silence for the next minute or two. Then, the Allman Brothers is replaced, very loudly, by “What is Love” by Haddaway. Ratso appears wearing only the thong and holding a DV camera.
RATSO: We have to make one of those fucking gay YouTube videos!
SLIM: No fucking way.
RATSO: You can be the cameraman. We just gotta figure out the fucking choreography or whatever.
CHUNKY: Dude, do you have those warm-up pants that you can violently rip off?
RATSO: Oh my God, you are a fucking genius. Saggy, go grab those porn star pants from our rooms. We’ll plan out the moves.
CHUNKY: We don’t want it to look too gay right at the beginning. Like, we can just stand there with our arms crossed or some shit.
RATSO: Yeah, okay. We can stand in a triangle.
SLIM: Yeah, that’s really not gay.
RATSO: Shut the fuck up. This video is going to rape all other shit on YouTube so hard. Now, should we start with shirts on? And don’t tell me your nipples are gonna look weird on low-ass quality internet shit.
Boobs Carlisle and Jogs Chignon are on the side of the dance floor at a large suburban nightclub. A catwalk has been set up down the center of the floor; it is currently empty.
Boobs hands Jogs a cocktail and takes a large sip from her own.
JOGS: How much?
BOOBS: Don’t worry about it. I had a very good night last night.
JOGS: God, sometimes it really hurts me to think of all the gross, old, ugly men who just use your body as a tool to release their sexual tension.
BOOBS: They release something a lot more specific than that! And you aren’t such a treat yourself, lunchbox.
JOGS: I can’t lose all the weight overnight, especially with you feeding me these high-calorie cocktails. Do you know what the caloric count of just the gin in a gin and tonic is?
BOOBS: No, and I don’t care. You sound like my bitch mother who will eat half a piece of birthday cake and them yell at herself for the rest of the day.
JOGS: Well, we’re all fucking positioned as panic consumers in the late modern West, so it’s easy to see how these things can turn neurotic.
BOOBS: Jesus, where’d you get that shit? You sound like Precious.
JOGS: Something from my cultural studies class.
BOOBS: I am so fucking glad I’m not in college. I’d rather be exploited for my tits and snatch than my brain. Hey, here comes your sister: I bet she thinks so, too.
Sam Chignon approaches wearing a red vinyl jumper with deconstructed faux-snakeskin accents and lace-up bondage boots.
BOOBS: You look hot!
SAM: That toxic bitch Johnnova is backstage! Her parents pay the agency thousands of dollars so they can let her walk in the show with the real models so she can pretend to be legit and not a pageant whore.
JOGS (to Boobs): The actual models hate the pageant girls.
SAM: She is made of pure fuck! She gives off more stank than a roomful of fags watching Cinemax titsploitation shit.
BOOBS: And what the fuck kind of name is Johnnova?
SAM: Johnnova Assnest.
Boobs laughs hysterically.
SAM: I’m seriously considering trying to figure out a way to sabotage her at Miss Teen Slut Bitch or whatever the fuck the biggest pageant is called.
BOOBS: I work with a girl that used to do those. I’ll ask her.
SAM: That would be awesome.
BOOBS: It’s no problem, but she’s done a whole lot of K and G since then so I can’t promise that her memory is flawless.
SAM: Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll be sixth and then up again later in some puffy knitwear monstrosity designed by a “Project Runway” reject.
JOGS: Walk fierce for us!
BOOBS: High school girls can be such toxic bitches. I sure feel bad for your sister, having to deal with that one.
JOGS: Yeah, but she’s okay. She has a unique perspective on high school girls, which I think helps.
BOOBS: I wonder if we’ll be able to guess which one is Johnnova. God, what a name.
Precious Cox enters her apartment in Bronxville and sits on the couch with her roommate, Julissa Rose.
PRECIOUS: What a fucking endless day from hell. I could go the rest of my life without explaining to first grade boys how to rotate their pelvises sufficiently rhythmically.
JULISSA: Well, the show is soon, at least.
PRECIOUS: That’s true.
She takes out her laptop and opens an internet browser.
PRECIOUS: I hate being sans email for hours. Let’s see what’s on the 'Book . . . "Gunnar has joined a group called 'Save the Favelas from Appropriation by Opportunist Hipsters.'" There’s a shocker!
JULISSA: What does that even entail?
PRECIOUS: Not going to parties where the people are passé enough to still spin baile funk? Don’t ask me.
JULISSA: I remember him raving about Slumdog Millionaire. He said it was the closest thing to the resurrection of Satyajit Ray.
PRECIOUS: What a retarded fuckwit. He also became enraged when I said City of God was overdirected, which doesn’t even get into the political bullshit. Except he refuses to call it by the English title.
JULISSA: Did you see about that 13-your-old daddy shit?
PRECIOUS: Yes, but maybe there’s an update. Let’s see what Dlisted has to say . . . Oh, great. Another YouTube video of teenage boys dancing shirtless. Which Village People song will it be this time? Bet you an IPA that it’s “Sodom and Gomorrah.”
PRECIOUS: Damn, they went newer school. This is truly abysmal, although the camerawork isn’t bad. And they have the porn pants, of course.
JULISSA: Just the idea of the pre-planning involved in those things is kind of brilliant.
PRECIOUS: I know, right? And look: thongs! And . . . actually . . . holy mother of fuck! That kid is friends with my brother!
JULISSA: Shut the fuck up.
PRECIOUS: I’m serious. The YouTube account name is . . . Ratso69x420. Location: Edina, MN. At least Slim isn’t in the video. I would have to get a lobotomy.
JULISSA: Either that or recruit him to be your choreography assistant.
PRECIOUS (laughing): I guess. This is too insane.
Slim and his father are working at the latter’s erotica store. Slim is behind the counter while Raymond sets up a display of tongue vibrators.
SLIM: So apparently, some fag posted the video on this blog that like every other fag in the world reads, and now Ratso and Saggy are getting buttloads of comments and emails and Facebook messages. Some guy asked Saggy if he would be an exotic dancer.
RAYMOND: Is he going to?
SLIM: I think so! Apparently you can meet a bunch of girls that way, even if you dance at a gay bar.
RAYMOND: Yes, women do like establishments geared toward gay men. I always thought it was because they could escape being sexually assaulted, but now that I think harder, the man candy could also be a compelling factor.
SLIM: Although Saggy doesn’t have a problem with the bitches anyway.
RAYMOND: Have you ever considered being a go-go boy? It wouldn’t be a bad idea: extra money and a solution to your girl problems.
SLIM: I don’t know; the idea of dancing in underwear in front of a bunch of guys sounds kind of gay to me.
RAYMOND: But don’t you want to meet girls? I’ve been trying to avoid the subject, but I can’t help wondering whether you’ve even had a taste of pussy yet.
SLIM: Jesus Christ! I have a taste of vomit right now in my mouth and it’s about to be projected onto that row of Hitachi Magic Wand G-Spotter attachments!
RAYMOND: I just worry sometimes.
SLIM: If I choke to death on my own vomit, you wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
RAYMOND: Fine. Point taken. But can you at least talk to Saggy about his experiences as a go-go boy after he’s done a few gigs? Maybe check out the scene?
SLIM: I’ll think about it.
RAYMOND: I’m happy to hear that. And I’m happy those irregular thongs were put to such good use. And so quickly!
END OF PART ONE
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Scenes from the Class Struggle in and Near the 2009 Cow Palace Tattoo Expo (Or: I Skipped the 2009 Minnesota State High Kick/Precision Dance Team Tournament For THIS?!?)
1. Alfie Patten
In 2008, Alfie Patten experienced an instantaneous but incomplete puberty: his outward appearance, when clothed, remained staunchly pre-pubescent, yet underneath, undeniable secondary sex characteristics were visible to whomever Alfie chose to expose himself to.
One such person was his girlfriend, Chantelle. Chantelle was a slut; she never met a pair of balls that didn’t scream “Squeeze me!” to her. Sliders confused her—the hamburgers, that is. She spent her afternoons teaching local chavs the way of the world, and although as many as ten had been playing bury the carrot with her around the time she got pregnant, she was always certain the baby would be Alfie’s.
Chantelle was very excited to be pregnant. Because she was poor and trashy and ignored by her parents, she thought a child would fill the tenderness void in her heart. Chantelle also had very painful periods: her tampons could barely withstand the menstrual tornado that churned inside her once a lunar cycle. So, she wasn’t too sad about giving up heavy flow days for morning sickness.
Their daughter, Maisie, was born on February 14: Valentine’s Day. Alfie sent a picture of Chantelle’s dilated vagina to everyone in his phone book, which of course is why you have all seen the viral videos and remixes of Chantelle’s fanny on YouTube now.
One of the mixes, the happy hardcore remix, is set to the song “Heart of Gold” by Force & Styles, the first happy hardcore song I ever heard in public.
2. High School
When I am around high school students, I usually feel homicidal, and occasionally suicidal. This is true because high school students are supposed to be our future, and imagining a future ruled by the kind of culturally illiterate, horny, pathetic retards that are poisoning our institutions of secondary education right now is pretty fucking awful.
“Dude!” they say. “That bitch totally just got raped!” And this is a description of how they want their Subway sandwich prepared.
They’ve destroyed our language, reduced it to an incoherent code of interwoven images, abbreviations, references to niche market pornography, encrypted Peter Frampton chord progressions.
Just try talking to a high school student. Ask them something basic. Ask them, “Where would you like to have lunch near the Berkeley campus today?”
“Played-out fag crepe shit’s dece, but I love the fuck out of Fat Slice no homo.”
Smoke was coming out of my ears, and I’m not even smoking cigarettes at this point in time!
Teenagers also love smoking the drugs. They tell very long stories about people on drugs, stories that are not at all interesting and even less appropriate.
“Dude, remember that one time when we smoked the medicinal-grade shit and then went grocery shopping and I ate an entire box of Lucky Charms and then the next day we had extra cheese and garlic pizza on Potrero and on the way to Japantown I was barely able to restrain myself from taking a huge shit all over the bus and those black people in the back were listening to crunk and that fat fag next to me said Pass the malt liquor! which was pretty funny but I was afraid to laugh because I could have shit.”
I mean, yes, obviously I enjoyed the odd hit from a three hundred dollar bong back in my day, but back then there was some class involved with the whole proceedings. Today all the class is gone from drug use, which is really a sign that society is being flushed down the toilet of chaos.
4. I Love Money
“I’m on the cutting board, and they’re gonna cut the cheese.”
5. Fuck Those Cathedral Bitches
Is that of justice too much to ask? I mean, it’s Valentine’s Day, the day of love, so why can’t we have some nice, sturdy justice alongside the love?
What is love?
Resolved: One is such a lonely number.
What to expect: binaries, Zizek, gendered language, phallic numerology, determinism, drag, conversation hearts.
High school dance chaperones across the country are freaking out about a new dance craze. The dance, known as the “dick to face sweep,” is already the subject of much consternation . . .
Urban Outfitters sold x-rated conversation hearts this year. The most infamous varieties include “my backdoor is always open 4 u” and “meet me outside for hj after geometry class.”
They’re on clearance now, so act fast and stock up on enough love to last you until 2010.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Obviously, this excludes a massive amount of stuff I should have seen but haven't. My number one in that category is The New World, which I have, but haven't watched. In alphabetical order:
4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (Christian Mungiu)
The Flight of the Red Balloon (Hou Hsiou-Hsien)
The Heart of the World (Guy Maddin)
A History of Violence (David Cronenburg)
The Holy Girl (Lucrecia Martel)
Paranoid Park (Gus Van Sant)
Paris Commune 1871 (Peter Watkins)
Unknown Pleasures (Jia Zhang-Ke)
Werckmeister Harmonies (Bela Tarr)
Yi Yi (Edward Yang)
Café Lumiere (Hou)
La Cienaga (Martel)
The Death of Mr. Lazarescu (Christi Puiu)
Elephant (Van Sant)
Mulholland Dr. (David Lynch)
Friday, February 6, 2009
At the Chinese New Year party, Ratso is wearing a traditional Asian farmer’s hat, doing air guitar to “Houses of the Holy” while Saggy and some of his friends are playing Wii bowling. Kristi comes downstairs with her friend, Tamra, who is wearing a pink calf brace with many signatures.
RATSO: What’s up, bitches? Ching chang chong! Why you not dress up for Chink party?
KRISTI: I was gonna wear my mom’s old kimono, but it’s way too long.
RATSO: So cut it off at the cheeks.
KRISTI: I didn’t think of that.
RATSO: No shit, Sherlock. Anyway, we got Tsing Tao in the fridge and shit.
He returns to air guitar, getting into it and splashing some beer in the process. Kristi and Tamra walk over to the refrigerator, where Slim and Chunky are hanging out.
CHUNKY: That is the gayest thing I have heard since that one fag from “Project Runway.”
SLIM: That guy has the same fucking hairstyle as a bunch of chicks on porn covers, except theirs is dyed in big patches. I can’t really explain it.
CHUNKY: Dude, I totally know what you’re talking about. That one girl with the black and pink hair like that from the creampie website and shit? Total fap material.
SLIM: TMI motherfucker! (to the girls) Oh, hey. What’s up?
CHUNKY: How’s your calf?
KRISTI: She doesn’t want to talk about that.
TAMRA: Tonight I just want to get shitfaced and forget about what I should be doing . . .
She trails off and starts crying. Kristi quickly grabs two beers and then takes Tamra off to the bathroom to calm down.
SLIM: Smooth one, dude. You’re halfway to snatchville already.
CHUNKY: What the fuck? I was just trying to show some fucking concern. Anyway, after she’s faded and sees the calendar, she’ll totally be down on all fours and shit.
SLIM: Just make sure she’s drunk enough not to notice what your nipples actually look like.
CHUNKY: Shit! Good call, man. I totally didn’t think about that.
Kristi and Tamra come back.
TAMRA: Sorry about that. I just get so emotional sometimes.
CHUNKY: I totally know what you mean, dude. Like when the Steelers won the Super Bowl, I really felt something.
SLIM: You probably just had to shit really bad.
CHUNKY (to Tamra): Want another beer?
TAMRA: I just opened this one!
CHUNKY: So slam it. Let’s all slam it! Slam it, slam it, slam it!
They all chant together and slam their Tsing Taos.
Precious enters a crowded party of Sarah Lawrence students at an upstairs apartment, where groups of kids are talking, drinking from plastic cups. Generic indie dance music is playing, and two flaming boys are erotically dancing next to the stereo. Precious’s acquaintances Gunnar and E.Lin call her over.
GUNNAR: Join us. We were just talking about the Global South.
E.LIN: The world formerly known as third.
PRECIOUS: Naturally. Nothing goes better with Siberian Ice than pseudo-post-colonialist posturing. So, how about them Eritreans?
E.LIN: My friend Jedidiah’s partner is doing a film project on parallels between African starvation and bulimia in upper middle class American high schools.
PRECIOUS: That certainly sounds vomit inducing. Speaking of which, I’m going to acquire a cocktail. I’ll catch you presently.
She walks over to a table of assorted liquors and mixers, where one of the party’s hosts, Sassy, is selling cups.
SASSY: Sorry for the white trashiness, but it’s always a rent party concept.
PRECIOUS: I’d just be spending it on dick otherwise.
She hands over money and gets a cup.
SASSY: I saw you were talking to Gunnar. He’s in my Japanese Film class.
PRECIOUS: That must be a bitch and a half. What does he do? Rant about how Jim Jarmusch and Hal Hartley are the only two men he’d bend over and present his untouched raisin to?
SASSY (laughing): Pretty much.
PRECIOUS: Unfortunately, he has a radio show before mine, and he always goes at least five minutes into my time because he just has to play some obscure European psych epic from the mid-70’s that no one reasonable cares about.
SASSY: Yeah, I remember he has a show. What’s it called?
PRECIOUS: Mutant Frequencies. Surprisingly not as horrifying as you might expect, but then again, he’s always full of surprises. And, mostly, himself.
SASSY: Sebastian and her friends just got here. I should go say hello.
She pours herself a very generous amount of Siberian Ice with a hint of Diet Dr. Pepper and a lemon slice. Her classmate Bill “Samurai” Jones approaches, clearly intoxicated.
SAMURAI: Precious! I was just thinking of you. We were talking about liberatory sexual theory shit and I was like, “Dudes! Precious is totally down on that!” But no one was really listening because they’re all kind of drunk.
PRECIOUS: That’s certainly as good a reason as any. But yes, my pet project with the underclass children has been going well. I would hand out fliers for our performances next month, but they’re still at the printers.
SAMURAI: Awesome! Totally hook me up with that shit when you get the chance.
PRECIOUS: I will.
The music changes to Girl Talk.
SAMURAI: I totally love this album!
PRECIOUS: Greg Gillis is a clothing-averse idol for the masses, all right.
SAMURAI: Come dance!
PRECIOUS: Just give me five more minutes to become unsober, and I’ll shake it like a Polaroid snapshot.
Back at the Chinese New Year party, the basement is fairly crowded, with containers of Chinese take out laid on the tables along with beer cans. Saggy is making out with a topless girl on the couch. Ratso and Slim are standing again the wall, both somewhat drunk.
RATSO: Dude, someone needs to take a picture of that shit. Do you have your cell phone?
SLIM: Yeah, but I’m not gonna do over and do that. I’m not gonna take pictures that seem gay or some shit.
RATSO: What if they start fucking? Someone better tell them to get a room.
SLIM: Look at Chunky trying to hook up with Tamra.
RATSO: That piece of trash just might get his dick wet tonight. Fuck! We need to give out the calendars! Is it midnight yet?
SLIM: This isn’t a fucking New Years Eve party. You don’t have to wait for the ball to drop.
They both laugh uproariously.
RATSO: Dude, okay. I’m gonna go upstairs and get the calendars after I piss.
Ratso goes upstairs, leaving Slim standing alone. A very attractive girl walks up to him a moment later. It is Jog Chignon’s sister, Sam.
SAM: You're Precious’s brother, right?
SLIM: Yeah, the bitch is . . . Holy shit! You’re the girl from that fashion show. I totally didn’t notice you were here.
SAM: Yeah. I have no idea why your friend asked me to his party, but I’m so sick of the ones at my high school. Just a bunch of cockmasters listening to shitty classic rock, a giant circle jerk—a pissing contest.
SLIM: Shit, that sounds weak as fuck. Our parties are way better than that.
SAM (sarcastically, which Slim is too drunk to detect): Obviously. So, tell me something entertaining.
SLIM: Okay . . . Well, I work at Fantasy Gifts, you know, that porn and sex toy store next to Dollar Experience in that ghetto strip mall right off 494 and Portland?
SAM: Actually, I don’t know.
SLIM: Well, anyway, the craziest thing happened last week. This really fat guy walked into one of the jack-off booths with a Cub Foods grocery bag, and . . .
His riveting tale is interrupted by Ratso standing on a table and wolf whistling.
RATSO: Bitches and gentlemen! We have some wild shit going down tonight: a special surprise for you. For the Chinese New Year, we made a calendar of a bunch of the guys and you should totally check that shit out. The box is over there next to the 360.
CHUNKY: Tell them why we made it.
RATSO: Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, fag. We made it to cheer up Tamra because she can’t compete at some stupid dance fuckfest after she fucked up her calf.
Tamra bursts into tears and run off to the bathroom. Chunky grabs a calendar and heads after her.
SAM: Are you in this thing?
SLIM: No, but I did almost all the photography and art direction.
SAM: That must have been really fun.
SLIM: Yeah, it was pretty tight.
RATSO (interrupting): Not as tight as my brother’s pecs though. Look at this shit!
He displays one of Saggy’s photos.
RATSO: And here’s one of me. Dude, thanks for making my thighs look so good.
SLIM: Yeah, they do look nice.
Sam looks incredulous but slightly intrigued.
SAM: Can I have one?
RATSO: Dude, I will totally sign your copy. Aren’t you glad you decided to come to this party?
SAM: I can’t tell you how glad I am.
Raymond and his wife are watching a marathon of “The Real Housewives of Orange County.” Slim walks in from the kitchen, holding a glass of water and two Alleves, which he quickly swallows.
WIFE: I would say good morning, but it’s nearly 2:30! You must have had quite a time at that party last night.
RAYMOND: I remember when I was in high school. I would get wasted and, half the time, have no idea what happened the next day. Hopefully I never accidentally impregnated anyone!
WIFE: No indeedy!
RAYMOND: Imagine the child support lawsuits!
He pauses a moment to do just that.
RAYMOND: So, how was your party?
SLIM: It was okay. Everyone liked the calendar, and I met this hot bitch whose older brother knows Precious.
WIFE: Oh dear. I hope this girl isn’t a pretentious hairy-legged feminazi like most of the “girls” your sister hangs out with.
SLIM: Not at all.
RAYMOND: So she wasn’t frightfully butch?
SLIM: Nope. Totally femme.
RAYMOND: Not that I have a problem with butchies. God knows, I love it when they come into my store and buy artisanal strap-ons, tit clamps, and other toys. They have a discerning eye for sex toys, those butch dykes!
SLIM: Yeah, dude, but is there even porn starring butch chicks? All the lesbians I’ve seen look pretty straight.
RAYMOND: I’ve wondered about that myself, but I think lesbian porn is just for men who enjoy masturbating without having to see a big old penis on the screen.
SLIM: That’s cogent.
WIFE: So, did you get this girl’s number? Are you going to take her to the movies and poke your candy car into her popcorn box?
SLIM: That is fucking revolting. And no, unfortunately I didn’t get the digits. Ratso was trying to mack on her, but that didn’t really work. It was actually pretty fucking funny to see his self-assured ass get denied.
WIFE: I’m surprised he’s popular with the ladies. He’s always been a very homely boy, that one.
SLIM: Yeah. I guess self-confidence goes a long way.
RAYMOND: It does! And you need a hot beef injection of self-confidence. Act like you’re Casanova and this girl will melt in your arms. And your mouth!
SLIM: That is fucking sick as fuck!
Jogs and Sam are having coffee at a diner on East Lake Street.
SAM (laughing): So, you better watch out! You’ve got some competition.
JOGS: It’s really strange that that kid has the hots for Boobs.
SAM: Yeah, but maybe he’ll start dating the girl with the cast. They were all over each other right before I left.
JOGS: I guess those parties haven’t changed in the last two years.
SAM: Yeah, they must be the same everywhere. Or variations on a theme.
JOGS: And I still cannot get over that calendar. What the fuck is wrong with people?
SAM: I don’t know. The horse picture was pretty hot. And the cock one was . . . well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.
JOGS: What about the dude who’s crushing on Boobs?
SAM: He was the tiger, and maybe one other one. He did have a pretty built ass.
JOGS: Fuck. Maybe I should get a personal trainer.
SAM: You better!
JOGS: So, Precious’s brother sounds nothing like her.
SAM: Yeah. I didn’t get much of an impression of him, but that might be a good thing.
JOGS: He seemed okay to me.
SAM: Well, I doubt I’ll see any of those guys again. But at least I have good stories.
JOGS: And the calendar!
SAM: Yes. The best part.
END OF SCENE FIVE
END OF EPISODE