SCENE I
Slim, Chunky, Ratso, and Saggy arrive at school in the morning. They are immediately greeted with a chorus of hoots and wolf whistles.
MALE STUDENT 1 (singing): Baby don’t hurt me, baby don’t hurt me . . .
RATSO: I’ll hurt you when I shove that bitch’s UGG boot all the way up your ass. Fuckin homo probably already gets fisted, but now your faggot ass is gonna get footed!
MALE STUDENT 1: Ooh, threatening sexual assault. How au courant.
MALE STUDENT 2: Watching your gay asses try to dance was sexual assault on my eyes. My eyes! Brain bleach FTW!
CHUNKY: Did you know the FTW backwards in WTF, motherfucker? And I’ll WT your F’in ass if you don’t shut it.
MALE STUDENT 2: You’re pretty fuckin WT, that’s for sure.
RATSO: He’s got you there, man.
CHUNKY: Fuck you all. You’re just jealous of my glutes. Well, reality check, motherfuckers: there’s less than three weeks of juicing time before spring. What bitch will want to bite the thong off your non-ass?
Chunky’s occasional sexing partner, Tamra, dramatically limps over the support him.
TAMRA: Yeah, Male Student 1! The next bitch you’re fucking is gonna try to grab your ass and either fall over or have to settle for folds of back skin. Not fun, trust me.
RATSO: Trust the ho. She knows of what she speaks.
MALE STUDENT 1: I guess I’ve been pwned, but at least the entire interweb hasn’t seen me rip off fucking porn star pants.
SAGGY: You don’t know me, motherfucker!
MALE STUDENT 1: We were lab partners last semester.
RATSO: My brother was being illiteral, you ignorant fuckwad.
MALE STUDENT 1: Whatever, I’m gonna bounce. The bell’s about to ring.
The crowd disperses.
TAMRA: I loved your video, and the camerawork was absolutely amazing. Best cinematography since Memoirs of a Geisha!
RATSO: That sounds gay.
SLIM: I did the photography.
TAMRA: Oh, wow! Maybe you can videotape our dance team’s charity bikini performance next month.
SLIM: Are you fucking kidding me?
TAMRA: So you’ll do it?
SLIM: Hell no. That sounds like the gayest thing since Memoirs of a Geisha 2: The Gay-ening.
CHUNKY: Is that real?
SLIM: Have Saggy ask his customers tonight.
CHUNKY: You’re working already?
RATSO: He’s booked tonight at the 90’s and Friday and the Saloon, and his manager says that if he hits it fucking big they’ll go down to some faggot-ass gay club in Des Moines and rape the Iowan homos for the Benjamins there.
SLIM: Oh, yeah. Iowa doesn’t have the no booze with pubes law like Minnesota, does it? I bet that draws in the shit-stabbers.
RATSO: That law is so fucked up. Booze and pubes is like chocolate and peanut butter.
CHUNKY: Or fapping and shitting.
RATSO: Or that.
SAGGY: Hella.
SCENE II
Precious and her roommate, Julissa Rose, enter their college radio station’s Viva Indie Rawk party, held in a dorm basement’s recreational space. The radio station president, Eden Dahl, greets them with plastic cups.
EDEN: I know it’s trashay, but we’re consistent: we’ve got wop with Everclear for your imbibing pleasure.
PRECIOUS: How scintillatingly politically incorrect! Just the way I like my sexual partners.
EDEN: Speaking of scintillating, how’s your project with the lower income elementary students going?
PRECIOUS: One squat at a time. Kids these days really don’t have the hip and thigh flexibility that we learned practically from the time we could walk. I just thank Jesus H. Kristofferson that Manpower Australia doesn’t use poles yet, because we would be up the proverbial creek.
EDEN: You should write a PSA so we can advertise your show on the air.
PRECIOUS: Totes. I’ll get on that like Lance Bass on a purple-headed love warrior. Now excuse us while we get wopped.
Precious and Julissa head toward the garbage can of wop.
JULISSA: Last year at a Mardi Gras party, my friend spiked the wop with G.
PRECIOUS: That must have been a very short Mardi Gras.
JULISSA: Yeah; I wasn’t drinking because I still had mandatory piss tests for that recovery program with the crank addicts.
PRECIOUS: Did you cock-block any rape attempts?
JULISSA: No, I just left and went to Jimmy John’s and headed home for a bubble bath.
PRECIOUS: Nice. Oh, look: Gunnar’s spinning.
JULISSA: The minimalist Finnish psych folk playing didn’t clue you in?
PRECIOUS: I was too immersed in the promise of hot wop to even notice. I feel like such a pathetic excuse for a Sarah Lawrence radio DJ! I’ll have to go home and read fanzines from 1994 while listening to Danish coldwave seven inches.
JULISSA: Let’s request something.
They approach Gunnar, who takes a break from looking through bins of records to drink directly from a full-size bottle of Kariho sake.
GUNNAR: Hey, how’s late modernity treating y’all?
PRECIOUS: Victimized by the ideological domination of consumerist panic in the throes of an amodernist interpellatory-panoptic deadlock on subjectivity; in other words: same old, same old. And you?
GUNNAR: Hangin’ in there.
JULISSA: Are you taking requests tonight?
GUNNAR: Na klar! Wir haben mucho electo and wave shit we dragged out. Perhaps some Debbie Deb?
PRECIOUS: Well, if we were at a rent party in Astoria in 2004, that would have been pretty ground-breaking.
GUNNAR: Ouch!
JULISSA: I play freestyle on my show all the time!
PRECIOUS: And in the house. But nobody’s perfect.
GUNNAR: A cyborg version of Zizek would be perfect.
SCENE III
Ratso, Saggy, and Chunky are hanging out in Ratso and Saggy’s basement, listening to Roger Waters and drinking Old Milwaukee. Saggy is playing Halo 3 on the 360.
CHUNKY: Dude, now that we’re all famous, I’m totally going to try to get Tamra to have a threesome. I bet we could ever get a porn star.
RATSO: What’s the fucking point? One bitch already has more holes than you can fill.
CHUNKY: I guess I wasn’t thinking about it that way.
RATSO: Then in what fucking way were you thinking about it? One on your dick and the other tossing your salad? You’d be the first dude ever to turn into an insta-fag while fucking two bitches at the same time.
CHUNKY: My brother said it feels awesome, though.
RATSO: Then your brother is a faggot. You’ll find a way to accept him in your heart someday.
CHUNKY: Fuck you!
RATSO: Saggy, did you see Chunky’s bro at the club last night?
SAGGY: Not that I . . . fucking zombie alien bitch!
RATSO: That motherfucker raped you so hard! Dude, you need to get that shotgun thing back. Go to the left. No, not over there.
SAGGY: Fagbug!
Ratso laughs. Slim enters the basement holding a stack of magazines.
RATSO: What up, cockmaster?
SLIM: Fuck you. Anyway, we got a magazine with a feature on our video and I brought copies for everyone.
He hands out the copies and Ratso hands him a beer.
RATSO: Freshmen? What the hell is this faggot fuckery?
SLIM: Yeah, it’s for fags, but my dad says that there isn’t really a market for straight porn featuring barely legal guys. This magazine has also featured the two legal Jonas brothers and Zac Efron, and nobody thinks they’re gay.
CHUNKY: Are you fucking kidding me? Joe Jonas is gayer than a bag of dicks.
RATSO: Did your brother tell you that?
CHUNKY: Enough about my motherfucking brother! He’s fucked more girls than the number of times you’ve fucked your right hand.
RATSO: That is highly fucking unlikely.
SAGGY: Hella highly.
SLIM: Dude, I really don’t want to think about that. Anyway, how was the gig, Saggy?
SAGGY: Noice.
RATSO: He got almost four hundred dollars that fags stuffed into his g-string.
SLIM: I told you that thing was high-quality. Most g’s would have perished under that kind of tension.
RATSO: Bulge probably knows about tension in his g, unlike you.
SLIM: Fuck you!
RATSO: Anyway, the money wasn’t all there at the same time, you idiot. He took breaks and took it out as the night went on. Dumbass shitbag.
SLIM: How would I know?
CHUNKY: How do you not know that shit? Do you not have internet access?
RATSO: Yeah, your ignorance is fucking shocking sometime.
SLIM: Whatever.
RATO: There’s some pics posted on Facebook of Saggy dancing last night. You should check it out.
SLIM: Yeah, I don’t think so.
RATSO: Don’t be so gay.
SCENE IV
Slim’s parents are having dinner at the home of Raymond’s sister, Lacey Cox-Sickle, and her husband, Dick “Enrico” Sickle.
LACEY: Can I just tell you how sweet these li’l cocktail glasses are? You just pour in some ice—nice and cold—and a pre-mixed cocktail, and garnish with a couple . . . dozen . . . bluberries.
ENRICO: This is some strong shit, honey! Are you trying to get us shit-faced before dessert?
LACEY: I wouldn’t want you to be anything but literally vertical.
ENRICO: So, Ray, how’s business at the house of dildo? Hard times for hard customers in today’s economy? Obamanomics having you holding onto your pocketbook like a pubescent boy’s death grasp on his own cock?
RAYMOND (laughing): Actually, I’m confident that people will, more and more, remember to appreciate life’s simple pleasures, like prostate stimulators and MILF videos.
WIFE: I just hope people don’t get so depressed that their libido goes away. I’ve heard that can happen.
RAYMOND: Oh, spare me your pop psychology bullshit. That stuff’s just for bored housewives who want to sound intelligent to impress morons.
ENRICO: Cheers to that!
LACEY: That’s why I only read magazines about cooking and entertaining, tablescapes, and sweet li’l things like that. Ask Enrico about my Valentine’s Day surprise. I got it from Sandra.
ENRICO: You mean the homemade edible cleavage-enhancing powder? We could barely make it upstairs before I plundered her musky treasures!
LACEY (whispering coyly): The secret is Pixy Stix.
WIFE: I’ll have to try that sometime.
ENRICO: So, how are the kids? The daughter still caught up in the feminazi bullshit?
WIFE: I hope it’s just a phase, but she’s doing some great community service with poor black children from the hood.
RAYMOND: “The hood”? Are you trying to talk like the kids now?
WIFE: Maybe I’m just a silly bitch, but I think it’s important to understand the way people communicate—even teens.
ENRICO: You’re wrong! The “LOL” and the “BFR” and the “DP” and all that hooey.
RAYMOND: Well, I know what DP means.
SCENE V
Jogs Chignon and his friend, Boobs Carlisle, are waiting in line to get into the Saloon, a gay club in downtown Minneapolis.
JOGS: So, you’re sure this isn’t going to be weird?
BOOBS: No! How many times have you had to watch gross guys hitting on and grinding with girls in douchebag clubs? At least here you aren’t competing with those Axe-wearing frat boy motherfuckers.
JOGS: Do you get a lot of those types?
BOOBS: I wish! Although lap dances are easier on fat dudes.
JOGS: Don’t say that word!
BOOBS: It’s not my fault you let yourself go, doughboy.
JOGS: I’ve lost two more pounds in the last week.
They reach the bouncer, who ID’s them, stamps their hands, and lets them in.
They head to the bar.
JOGS: Did you ever find out anything from your coworker who does pageants?
BOOBS: Yes! I totally forgot to mention it. She’s pretty incoherent, but she told me that there’s some weird shit that goes down at those things: bribes, sexual favors, crazy shit.
JOGS: It’s so disgusting to see girls being taught that they’re only valuable for their bodies, like tools.
BOOBS: You’re a tool, asshole!
JOGS: Oh, sorry. It’s just that I think sex workers are forced into a situation that’s painfully unsubversive vis-à-vis the liberatory strategies of post-feminists.
BOOBS: You need to drop that sociology class. Look at that guy in the cage!
JOGS: Gross!
BOOBS: Whatever. He’s wearing a g-string! And he can’t take it off. Remember the pubes and booze law?
JOGS: Yeah, but does that count when he’s suspended in a cage up there? I mean, it’s not like we can climb up there and grope his zipper knight.
BOOBS: I actually don't know how the law works in situations like that. But I do know how I'd work in a situation like that guy's bedroom.
JOGS: Jesus, I already have to see him practically naked and now you say shit like that.
BOOBS: So what? Everyone's seen a dick outline in a thong by sixth grade these days. It's no big deal.
JOGS: His doesn’t look like a small deal, either.
BOOBS: Jealous?
JOGS: Maybe.
BOOBS: Well, you know what they say: lose ten pounds, gain an inch. Your dick is just hiding in all that unsightly blubber.
JOGS: I didn’t know about that! But now that I think about it . . .
BOOBS: See? Sometimes clichés are true.
JOGS: I guess they are. I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.
BOOBS: Tell that to Michael Crichton!
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