SCENE ONE
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.
He leaves.
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!
SCENE II
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.
SAGGY: Faglizard!
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!
CHUNKY: Yes!
SAGGY: Hella!
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.
SCENE III
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.
SCENE IV
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.”
JULISSA: Sure.
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.
SCENE V
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
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