World of Cox Episode 1: Calendar Boys (Part One)

SCENE I

Slim Cox is having breakfast with his parents in their kitchen.

RAYMOND: It’s amazing, really. His description of the Vibro’s ability to stimulate the “P” spot is so vivid. I can’t believe how many people come into my shop looking for just some Magnums and lube, and leave with a 150-dollar prostate stimulator.

WIFE: That is so sweet. And I got some great news from Precious last night. Remember that center for underprivileged youth she’s working at?

SLIM: Children of Malt Liquor?

PRECIOUS: That sounds racist to me.

SLIM: That’s what it’s called, bitch!

WIFE: Oh! Well, then, I sit corrected. Anyhoo, Precious has choreographed a routine where the 7- to 9-year-old boys are going to perform an exact replica of a performance by Manpower Australia!

SLIM: With the same outfits? The red thongs or whatever shit they have now?

WIFE: Gee, I didn’t think to ask. Sometimes I really can be shockingly stupid, but you guys know that.

SLIM: Why the fuck is she making them do that gay shit, anyway?

WIFE: She said something about deconstructing the hegemonic conception of the sexualization of something or other. It didn’t make all that much sense to me.

RAYMOND: Well, that is nice! I’ve got to head out, though. We’re getting a shipment of Spandex bodywear that I need to tag and display. It can be a real bitch putting stuff like thongeralls on my mannequins!

SLIM: Using baby powder helps with that.

RAYMOND: Geez, you just know everything! And I bet you have some baby powder upstairs you can lend me.

SLIM: Dude, hello. I have balls.

RAYMOND: Do you ever!

SCENE II

Ratso and Saggy Rubinstein are in the boys’ locker room after gym class, sitting facing each other, topless.

RATSO: Dude, that creatine is really fucking working on your bitch tits. Can I touch them?

SAGGY: Hella yes.

Ratso tweaks his brother’s left pec surreptitiously.

RATSO: Dude, I need to start lifting. Who the fuck says January is too early to start juicing?

RATSO: Hella not me.

Slim and Chunky enter the locker room.

RATSO: Look at my brother’s tits! Dude, do you want to touch them?

CHUNKY: Fuck no.

SLIM: That’s pretty fucking gay.

RATSO: What the fuck is wrong with you? If it’s gay to fucking admire another man’s pecs, then pretty much everything in the world is gay.

SLIM: Fine, but I’m not going to touch that shit. And also, your brother needs to not fucking sag his boxers because I don’t want to see his pubes and what may or may not be a section of his dick.

RATSO: Dude, you’re the one looking there!

SLIM: Because it’s a fucking train wreck!

CHUNKY: Who cares?

RATSO: Dude, you’re the one that won’t even take off your shirt when we go swimming.

CHUNKY: I’ve told you that I have weird nipples. I don’t like showing my nipples to people.

RATSO: Why? Are they hairy? Mine are super hairy but I shave them every couple of weeks. See?

CHUNKY: Your boobs look fine.

SCENE III

Slim, Chunky, Saggy, and Ratso leave the locker room and walk down the hallway. Kristie, Saggy’s friend with benefits, approaches them. She is wearing Juicy Couture sweatpants, Uggs, and a puffy Abercrombie vest.

SAGGY: Hey bitch.

KRISTIE: Have you heard what happened? This is seriously like the biggest tragedy since the fucking Holocaust!

CHUNKY: Is that the thing from that one movie with the guy from Batman Begins?

KRISTIE: That is so not important right now.

RATSO: So what the fuck happened?

KRISTIE: Tamra sprained her calf and now she can’t be in the section dance team tournament!

RATSO: How did she sprain it? Trying out some kinky new sexual position?

SLIM: We have a great product for that called the Liberator Wedge; it’s one of our top sellers. Often called the connoisseur's serving spoon of choice, the Wedge offers delivery at a divine incline for deeper penetration and G-spot navigation. The 27-degree angle excels every oral performance, eases any anal expedition and intensifies every single sensation. Always a favorite with the ladies!

RATSO: Dude, that sounds amazing!

KRISTIE: Aren’t you sad for Tamra though?

SLIM: This is the same bitch who bruised her sternum getting titty-fucked by . . . actually, was that you, Saggy?

SAGGY: No idea.

SLIM: Whatever. Until I hear how she hurt herself, I fucking reserve judgment.

KRISTIE: You are such a fucking asshole! God, I can’t believe you guys.

CHUNKY: Hey, I totally feel sad for her.

RATSO: Yeah right. You feel for her but that feeling isn’t called sadness.

CHUNKY: Whatever’s it’s called, let’s think of something to cheer her up.

KRISTIE: Saggy, you’re going to help with that, aren’t you?

SAGGY: Whatever.

RATSO: Dude, I’m in. Anything to help a bro get pussy. What about you, Slim?

SLIM: I think I’ll stick to the periphery on this one. But if you want to get her an Odyssey Tickler or a Slimline Waterdancer or something , you know where to go.

SCENE IV

Ratso and Saggy are hanging out in their basement with Chunky, drinking Natty Ice. Ratso is playing Street Fighter II on the modded XBOX Classic; his fighter of choice is Chun Li.

RATSO: That is so fucking not the best Pink Floyd album! Dude, you are fundamentally retarded for even thinking that shit!

CHUNKY: I don’t get all your post-Barrett apologist bullshit, but I’m not gonna argue about it.

RATSO: Yes you are. You’re going to fucking argue until you admit that you’re a bitch that doesn’t know shit about the second-greatest band of all time.

Ratso’s phone rings and he answers it.

RATSO: Bulge! Dude, why the fuck aren’t you here yet? . . . Okay, just grab whatever bitches are around.

CHUNKY: Dude, Chun Li just got raped by that sumo fatass. I bet dude would rip her snatch a new asshole if they could actually fuck.

SAGGY: Truf.

RATSO: Hey, Chun Li reminds me that Chinese New Year is next weekend. We should totally have a party and invite some bitches and eat chink food and whatever beer they have there.

SAGGY: YES.

CHUNKY: Dude, I just got the perfect idea to cheer up Tamra!

He stares blankly into space for 30 seconds.

CHUNKY: Yeah! This is going to be totally awesome. And you guys will finally be able to see my nipples.

RATSO: Actually, when you passed out on New Year’s Eve . . .

CHUNKY: Are you fucking serious?

RATSO: Someday the truth will come out, my man. Someday.

Saggy angrily slams down his beer can, splashing foam on the floor.

RATSO: Mom is going to be so pissed if you don’t clean that up.

SCENE V

Slim is behind the counter at Fantasy Gifts while his father arranges a display of flavored body oils, foams, and sprays.

RAYMOND: We’ve sure had some strange ones today. I never thought I would see dwarves in bondage gear buy so many nipple clamps. Do those things have other uses?

SLIM: I’ll check online when we get home tonight.

The phone rings and Slim answers.

SLIM: Fantasy Gifts. . . . Dude, I’m working here.

He waits as the caller talks for some time.

SLIM: Okay, I can look for something, but there is no way in fuck that I am going to be photographed for that shit. Or photograph it. I’ll be the art director but that is it!

He hangs up.

RAYMOND: What was that?

SLIM: Some of my friends are going to pose for an erotic calendar based on the signs of the Chinese Zodiac.

RAYMOND: That sounds like a fantastic idea!

SLIM: Yeah, I’m going to find them props and help out.

RAYMOND: Are you going to be one of the models? When I was your age, I would impress girls with photographs of me pointing at my bare, ripped abs. And the special ones got a little bit more, if you know what I mean.

SLIM: T to the fucking M to the I! I’m about to throw up all over these vagina bottle openers!

RAYMOND (laughing): Someday you’ll meet a girl worth exploiting your beautiful young body for.

END OF PART ONE

Must-Not-See TV

The 2005 MBA Review

I'm trying to come up with exciting new content to post here, potentially including a review of the Section 1AA dance team tournament coming up on February 7 at Zumbrota-Mazeppa High School. In the meantime, here is an old piece about going to Tennessee and shit.

***

It is early 2005. It is raining and Garth Brooks is on the radio, singing about his stunning success on the South Beach Diet. I’m not sure if it’s a song or a commercial, but I am sure that his smooth, silky voice is just what I need to find my own inner sunshine in a city of rain, in a world of pain. The windshield wipers wash a smile through the fog of tears. When the breakdown begins, I am so exhilarated I pump my fist in the air wildly until I violently punch the inside light. There is an intense cracking sound—hopefully plastic, not bone. I moan and wail. It’s a piercing scream that, on its own, would belong in one of them bad horror movies that these damn kids are always going to and then imitating by dressing up as dolls committing violent knifings in the girls’ locker room after midnight. But, combined with Garth’s honey-coated tenor, his divine twang, we become a duet more stunning than Ozzy Osborne and Lita Ford ever were.

The car in front of us suddenly pulls off to the side of the highway, forcing us to swerve to avoid running into a hijacked ice cream truck driven by some woman who apparently thought she couldn’t talk on her cell phone and drive at the same time, so instead of risking an accident, she decided on a much safer option. The image of a car accident in Nashville reminds me of the car accident in Nashville, which in turn reminds me of the long, silky ponytail I had when I was in junior high. The week before I started ninth grade, I cut off the tail and put it in a fine burlwood box lined with silk to keep safely in my safe. Every few months, I would take out the box and stroke the hair, remembering all the good times we had together. The two of us were inseparable, like a carrot and onions. But you learn to give up things, to make sacrifices. You could eat all five Goo-Goo Clusters or you could eat four and give the fifth to charity. It’s your decision.

Along with the rebel flag and the flaming guitar, the Goo-Goo is truly a powerful symbol of Nashville. It represents everything the city stands for: big, salty nuts; rich, fatty chocolate; and something wet and sticky. I mean white and sticky. In fact, if you go too long without a Goo-Goo, you will wake up in the night craving one. Your mouth will be watering so much that your pillow will soak up all the drool like a sponge and be useful in dishwashing, floor cleaning, and envelope sealing for several months. There is no substitute for the Goo-Goo. A foolish Yankee company tried to replicate them a few years ago. Their cheap, trashy imitation, which they called Tolerance Treats, were an even bigger flop than Glazed Chex. At least in this part of the world—I won’t speak for the French.

But when we checked into our hotel Friday afternoon, the special Refresher with the Goo-Goos was still about 27 hours away, so I forced myself to think about less delicious things: specifically, what to wear to the opening dinner. One of the best things about coaching debate is making fun of high school students for wearing those silly business suits as if they were real adults. Look at those kids acting all big and mighty and wearing those fancy clothes. Those kids don’t know nothing about nothing.

Tragically, MBA equalizes the oppression by making real adults (and young adults lord knows there are college students thinking they know how to coach debate what are they trying to turn the activity into too much punting for one thing and democracy as a value o god help us) dress up along with the kiddies. When I realized this archaic tradition was still going strong, I went out for some post-New Year’s panic shopping and a light lunch at Old China Buffet. I found some stunning vintage suits and ties, although unfortunately I couldn’t enjoy them immediately because the buffet had its revenge in the form of fourteen hours on the crapper. I emerged refreshed and rejuvenated, having read the last seven issues of US Weekly and four chapters of the new Michael Crichton novel. He good writer.

With my new clothes and suitcase, I felt like a new person as we checked into the Holiday Inn Select Vanderbilt. I knew it was a good sign when I heard Clint Black playing in the lobby and the clerk who checked us in was named Gavina Vagillus. Then, to make a good thing even more better, we turned on the TV and Jerry Springer was on. And then, if the world couldn’t be even more perfect, this episode was all about post-op transsexuals revealing their fantasy crushes on straight firemen. I knew it would be hotter than a 4-alarm fire! Jerry! Jerry! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!

Suddenly the incessant chanting going on inside my head put me in a trance, and I spent the next 43 minutes on the ground quivering and moaning. A whirlwind of hallucinogenic images flashed through my head: Mr. Peanut’s monocle growing diaphanous wings and gracefully fluttering toward the solar anus in an Icarian move; a graceful eagle flying into the sunset suddenly hit by a cannonball headed straight north; a 12-foot humanoid shape composed entirely of pigs-in-a-blanket dancing the Macarena on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I woke up, my face basked in sunshine. That was truly the worst thing ever, although now I know the answer to the age-old question: fork or spoon?

One thing was decided long before my brown revelation: fork, spoon, spork, chopsticks, and salad tongs would all be useful in shoveling as much good ol’ Southern grub in my tummy as possible at the MBA dinner. When we arrived, I was immediately impressed and overwhelmed by the luxurious mise en scène in the Massey building. There were those extremely classy red chili pepper lights hanging from the ceiling, along with an enormous piñata shaped like Rosie O’Donnell. Her giant stomach was bulging with individually wrapped candies, and I knew they would be sweet and delicious.

We selected a table near the buffet, where gleaming sterling covers barely concealed the steamy aromas of down home dishes waiting to be noisily devoured with vigor and satisfaction. Every spot was adorned with a glass of water, a glass of sweet tea, a fresh carnation, and a chunk of pork in the shape of a bell. We learned that this salty, satisfying formation of pig fat is there to symbolize the rich history of the south. Apparently they used to serve pork jerky instead, but it was so chewy and addicting that the contestants forfeited their rounds to chew on meat.

As soon as we settled our semiformally-clothed asses in the pleather seats, the Lord announced that it was time to hit the buffet. Unfortunately, a certain extemp speaker from Ohio took that literally, and violently injured his right hand by slamming it into one of the chafing dishes. However, after he was carted away by the charming countrified medical personnel of MBA, our table was invited to experience the delicious dishes awaiting our hungry mouths. I was drooling like Kevin Spacey at an Aaron Carter concert. Aaron Carter is one of the most socially and politically important musical artists of our times. He good.

On a tangential but vital note, Aaron Carter’s recent near-death experience should make us all think twice before we leave soiled mattresses on the highway. I know it’s tempting, but please, next time use your soiled mattresses to build a fun maze for your children and their friends to play in. Think with your head instead of your nacho.

Speaking of butter, the spread at MBA was mighty impressive. I loaded up my plate with corn, squid and guava ceviche, roaster guinea pig bites, cheesy beef balls, and the other dainty and delicious offerings. Did I mention there was corn? Back at our table, conversation stopped as we all shoveled heap after heap of food down our gullets. It was like a party was in my mouth, and it never wanted to end.

Our dessert, aside from cheesecake and white pepper ice cream, was the opportunity to enjoy three hot, spicy LD rounds. Resolved: Strict separation of corn and corn cobs is deee-licious! You can’t go wrong with sweet, sweet corn. Incidentally, the debates I judged Friday night were explosive, brisk, and facile, much like a former Teacher of the Year nominee. Like that lovely, powerful woman, the debates taught me about life; they taught me how to eat free at Hardee’s every Sunday morning (I am a little bit spoiled and more than a little bit manipulative, y’all!); and most of all, they taught me about guns and ammunition.

That night, I could barely sleep because I was so excited about the three rounds of extemp I was judging on Saturday. I love extemp! There’s nothing cuter than high school students impersonating local newscasters. And those introductions—Wow! Those are really, really hilarious. I mean so funny you will pee in your power suit. Multiple times in an hour. You do the math. There really is nothing funnier than the current situation in India being compared to that Far Side cartoon of a man about to karate chop a brick in half and little does he know that a brick wall is about to fall on him! LOL! Imagine me saying that in my best investigative reporter voice, complete with robotic (and very non-erotic) gestures. Now that’s forensics at its most bestest!

If the extemp rounds on Saturday didn’t quite live up to my dream fantasy expectations, at least they taught me that the amount we donated to tsunami relief was enough, and that the EU needs to relax its immigration policies to make up for the sad, sad lack of babies being born fast enough in Europe. The European race(s) are about to go the way of the Dodo! Where is Prussian Blue when we need them?

The speech and debate rounds on Saturday were far overshadowed by what we knew was coming later in the day. No, I’m not talking about the square dancing marathon at the Gaylord Event Center. I’m talking about Miami. I’m talking about China. I’m talking, of course, about the Refresher. Oh, the Refresher—those three syllables make me drool like Rosie O’Donnell at a Subaru dealership. I knew there were Goo-Goos waiting to be put in my mouth, but I knew I had to wait. As they say, abstinence makes the heart go fonder. In fact, I think Clay Aiken says that. I love him!

Where are the Divinyls when we need them?

It felt like six o’clock would never come. I whiled away the minutes braiding my hair, playing solitaire, creating a handsome balsa wood structure, and writing erotic poetry about the Olsen twins. Yet the hours went by like days, and the minutes went by like a 500-pound man on a Segway. Finally, the tension made me snap totally and completely. I was making farting noises and laughing hysterically; then suddenly I screamed and fell to the ground. I felt like someone had shot me with that ray that makes it feel like your internal organs are trying to escape through your nostrils.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, my panic attack ended. I fixed my hair, strapped on my messenger bag, and headed to the next extemp round. The round went by in a quick flash and suddenly it was Refresher time! I literally sprinted to the cafeteria, a graceful and gazelle-like run interrupted when I tripped over a decorative stone, flew several feet in the air, and landed on something soft and mushy. My first though was, Is that shit?

Actually, that same question sprang to my mind the first time I saw a Goo-Goo cluster. They may look unappetizing, but they are truly the most delicious food item ever created. But the Refresher contains more than just Goo-Goo. Much more. Every debater got a souvenir swizzle stick, a gift certificate to Banana Republic, and a set of Swahili vocabulary flash cards. Vee stan gloop! But the real draw is the Goo-Goo, and as I wiped the last bit of encrusted marshmallow foam from my mouth, I felt a twinge of jouissance. And that made me want to be alone.

After the Refresher, there was yet another explosive event to look forward to, or actually two explosive events. Do two explosions = one implosion? I’m not sure, but the double party fantasy experience was awaiting us at 10 o’clock. We had two hours between the last round and party explosion, so we decided to take a tour of downtown Nashville. An obese biker woman in a sidecar flicked us off, which may be because we were blasting “Galang” at top volume and dancing violently.

We laughed and turned up the stereo even louder. There’s no bass better than the bass of a hot Chevy Malibu, that’s for sure. And you know that extremely intense bass frequencies can cause a very dirty physical reaction. But then again, we all use cars to drop people off—people and things. Speaking of things, the Nashville Hard Rock Café is potentially the ugliest building I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve been to Gary, Indiana, Pittsburgh, and Mamaroneck. It is uglier than Michael Moore in a Speedo. Now that ugly!

After our foray through downtown, an unimpressive Italian dinner, and several minutes spent in the bathroom, we were ready to partay down. The party had several unique draws: heavy appetizers, an open bar, a jazz trio whose average age was 81.3, and of course sparkling conversation with the bigwigs of the debate community. I’m talking big, big, big, big! I signed a pact not to reveal further details about what happened at the party, but just wait nine months.

Sunday morning, the after-effects of the party were evident: people wearing sunglasses, moaning in agony, begging for aspirin, and falling asleep while judging rounds. Now, you may think that a sleeping judge is a bad judge, but I’ll take a hung over, passed out debate judge over an extemp judge any day. But that’s probably because I’m an antisocialist.

Anyway, back to my story. The rounds were over, and all that was left was the announcement of the lucky competitors in the demo rounds. I would tell you all about the demo round, except I didn’t watch it. I spent the time reading pornographic literature and eating several slices of pizza with smoked gouda and artichoke hearts. But the round, I’m sure, was fantastic, if corny, just like the rest of our experience in Atlanta.

The Fiery Furnaces were wrong: the South is not only a home. It is an ideology, a contested site. It may not be America’s Heartland, but it certainly is America’s Bloated Stomachland. It is that special place where you can say, “What up, shorty?” and smile a gold-toothed smile and eat lots of grits. Grits, okra, and a golf cart filled with an enormous man with tiny feet and an enormous fupa.

And, hidden within the folds of that sweet, sweet fupa is the secret to MBA fantasy success: many, many more Goo-Goos. Eat them; enjoy them. You will transcend physical reality as your taste buds take you to a better place.

Like judging the current resolution, being in Nashville is always already a religious experience.

Blogging Thru the 80's

When I first considered the conceptual arbitrariness that is simultaneously a boon and bane with regard to putting myself out there in the blogosphere, my mind began leaping across academic and cultural disciplines: island-hopping if you will (cf Jeff from this season of “Top Chef”). Why should I blog? Why should anyone blog? What’s the sound of one hand blogging? Fuck. These will never be answered, and in fact if you read blogs because you think you “get” writing, then you’re a fucking retard. The impossibility of virtual exchange via the interweb reaching a state with which confidence about the message, the medium, the Mexican—it’s all a clusterfuck. And so are you. Fuck.

Nevertheless, since blogging is arguably one of the few ways to prevent the impossibility of ethics, I decided to jump into this miasmic pool, this diaphanous web of pop cultural witticisms, grammatical structures intended to stress the intelligence of my writing as well as its ability to be read aloud smoothly and delightfully. I am here. Fuck. And I suppose, so are you, now. But if you think you’re my intellectual equal, you are fundamentally retarded.

Now, let’s talk about music, and specifically the music of the 1980’s. This was the decade when no wave turned new, when the seeds of grunge were developing like the breasts of an adolescent girl (cf yo mama). I was alive for just over one year of the 1980’s; however, still, I obviously have heard every worthwhile recording, from the dazzlingly obscure to the most crust-worn consensus rock opus, and will now inform you what’s the best and what’s the rest. Fuck. My taste is better than yours, of course, so if you disagree with any of this you are only proving me right, just as arguments against the standard of logic fundamentally self-implode by applying to the very body of logic they are trying to criticize. Isn’t that special (cf 1990’s SNL)?

1. Samantha Fox – S/T – 1987
Just when I thought I was sick of this former-topless model from England and her fluffy confections which sadly lacked a meaty undertone to grab onto, Stock, Hausen and Waterman stepped in and added their trademark production. They left the breasts intact but added pop radio-friendly electric beats, most memorably on the song “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).” Words truly cannot express how good that song—and her boobs—were/are.

2. Skating for Cover – Rituals – 1983
There are bands that take delicious tracks with some appalling element and given them life, there are producers that feed off already good mean, and then there are bands like Skating for Cover that are so obscure, even your roommate’s pretentious boyfriend who has a tape label out of his dorm and thinks Xela is too mainstream hasn’t heard of them. Lack of accessible boobage photography knocks this gem down from an otherwise-deserving number wonderful.

3. Lita Ford – Lita – 1988
Lita Ford has some of those voices that, for whatever reason, just invokes whiskey-soaked nights slutting it up. Fuck. This album features drunk-rockin’ ditties and the best opening line ever, with which “Kiss Me Deadly” begins.

4. Poison – Look What the Cat Dragged In – 1984
This has been the album that I put on when I’m trying to apply insane amounts of makeup before a party, my spirits are dying down, and I seek an injection of fresh liquid liner-bangin’ hotness. These tracks are about bitches being tickled by the feathered hair of drunken coke addicts. You will pump your fist in the air when “Talk Dirty to Me” comes on, and when you put on “I Want Action,” you will get what you want.

5. Terence Trent D’Arby – Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D’Arby – 1987
The ultimate father figure for so many girls and homosexuals during his time in the spotlight, Trent D’Abry left a lot of space between his sexy, drawn-out thighs, and his liquid croon would make anyone promise not to “kiss and tell” (cf “Wishing Well”). His erotic dancing inspired legions of guys to render themselves at least temporarily sterile after attempting to impress chicks with the split.

6. Old Skull – Get Outta School – 1989
Generally, I don’t think you should fuck with hardcore trios made up of nine-tear-old boys, especially when the tracks on their debut albums have names like “AIDS,” “Hot Dog Hell,” and “Who Lit the House.” In this case, well, damn. Fuck. They rock your shit off yet twinkle that classy feel that makes you forget you’re headbingin’ to a bunch of tender young boys.

7. Silicon Teens – Music for Parties – 1980
This album is allegedly by a trio of teen hipsters, but I could swear it was really the work of just one man: the man who made Depeche Mode Famous. This album has a high-concept, mesmerizing appeal: it features almost solely covers of Motown-era hits. And it’s really, really rare and shit. Fuck. I wish I had a copy of this on vinyl so badly.

8. Wall of Voodoo – Call of the West – 1982
I guess we’re scared of nerdalicious written long in the past. Or so I thought until I listened to this entire album and realized it would make hot proto-electro-disco-synth hits even today. I mean, it’s on IRS. They can turn shit buttons into Fuck Buttons.

9. Cher – Heart of Stone – 1989
Coming from her phenomenal Cher (1987) live set, the crazily-dressed bitch showed her ass to the entire navy in the most memorable music video until “Time to Pretend.” This banger of an album is dirty, very dirty; it’s about hard, pounding songs and “Just Like Jesse James” is truly a neglected classic.

10. My Bloody Valentine – Isn’t Anything – 1988
Duh. Fuck.

Movies of 2008

Top two:

Paranoid Park
Flight of the Red Balloon

Next tier:

My Winnipeg
Wendy and Lucy
Happy-Go-Lucky
Up the Yangtze
Alexandra

Still good:

A Christmas Tale
Milk
The Man from London

Still need to see (top five of many):

In the City of Sylvia
Waltz with Bashir
Silent Light
The Class
Che

Top tier if they count:

The Headless Woman (unreleased)
4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (maybe 2007)

Previews from hell:

La Misma Luna
The Visitor (why was a boom visible multiple times in the theatrical preview but not online?)
Doubt/Slumdog Millionaire/The Reader/Revolutionary Road/other gratuitous award season wanks I didn't have the displeasure of having to sit through

Favorite performances:

Juliette Binoche
Ann Savage
Sally Hawkins
Eddie Marsan
Galina Vishnevskaya
Emmanuelle Devos
Michelle Williams
Emile Hirsch

Predictions for 2009:

-Diablo Cody's slasher movie will be delayed at least one more time, get panned, and bomb
-Michael Cera will play himself in at least five major indie films
-Daniel Radcliffe will play a female sociopath with a Russian accent in another attempt to distance himself from the HP franchise
-More sci-fi, less Western
-David Fincher will make a movie that is one minute longer than Berlin Alexanderplatz and will include a 3-hour close-up of Brad Pitt's nearly motionless face set to the post-digital music of Stephan Mathieu

The 2008 Blake Review Part Three

*ACT THREE*

SCENE ONE

The doorbell rings and Raymond’s sister, Lacey Cox-Sickle (wife of local pool and patio superstore magnate Dick “Enrico” Sickle, hurries to let Raymond and his family in for their annual Christmas Eve celebration.

LACEY: Merry merry! It’s fantastic to see all of you. Precious, you look just as thin as ever. It’s nice to see us girls keeping up our looks.

She manages a half-smile; her facial mobility has been temporarily limited by recent Restylane treatments.

WIFE: Your house looks absolutely gorgeous.

LACEY: It’s literally breathtaking! Don’t you love my precious li’l cocktail tree? To make your own, into your barware cabinet I want you to take all your martini classes, shot glasses, hurricane glasses, and so forth and just adhere them to the branches with piano wire from your regular stringed instrument specialty boutique.

RAYMOND: That nutcracker topper looks like a toy we sell at my store. People come in and ask for the nutcracker topper, and I have to remember they’re not confusing us for the seasonal décor store in the other strip mall across the street.

LACEY: That’s a real convenient location. Both malls have their own li’l liquor store! Sometimes I just have to check out both in case there are any special deals of the moment.

Enrico enters and helps Raymond’s family with their coats.

ENRICO: The old broad here has been cookin’ up a storm. I told her, “as long as it doesn’t look like that fucking piece of shit Easter ham, we’ll be fine.” Seriously, that pig died so a chunk of him could be turned into a blooming onion-looking shit blob.

LACEY: That was not my recipe, and I had too many white knight saketinis that afternoon. What have you cooked for me lately, sweetie?

ENRICO: It’s your job to cook and clean, bitch! Or, should I say, Ho ho ho!

Everyone laughs. Slim and Precious sit under the cocktail tree while their parents grab the loveseat next to the fireplace.

Lacey leaves to get drinks for everyone in the kitchen.

ENRICO (to Slim): What’s up, buddy? Gotten any memorable blowjobs lately? Oh, I guess you don’t want to answer that in front of your parents. Like they’re stupid enough to think a beautiful boy like you isn’t fighting off bitches who want a taste of your corncob.

PRECIOUS: Even the holiday time has been irretrievably imbued with hypermasculine ideological domination. It’s really tiresome, but at least it gives me something to appropriate. Something to grab on to, to use a phrase to which you might be more receptive, although that may ultimately contradict what I’m intending to actualize.

ENRICO: Sure, you learn all those fuckin’ fancy words at college, but the degree you should be aiming for is a M.R.S.! You don’t want to become one of those uppity overeducated broads on public radio.

Precious growls and tries to distract herself with the engineering feat that is the cocktail tree. Lacey returns with a large tray of martini glasses filled with a slightly slushy electric blue mixture and rimmed with dried coconut shavings.

WIFE: Those look special.

LACEY: Say hello to my snowball martini cocktails. Onto the rim of your martini glass I’ve put for you just some shaved coconut for a sweet li’l garnish. The drinks are a little strong.

SLIM: Just the way we like ‘em.

PRECIOUS: You could have called this an ice “Sickle” cocktail.

LACEY: I don’t get it.

PRECIOUS: Sickle, like your last name.

LACEY: Well, that would be pretty fucking weird.

SLIM: Word to that.

He takes a large gulp of the drink and nearly goes into shock from the extreme blast of pure alcohol goodness.

LACEY: I warned you: I made ‘em strong. More cocktail for your buck equals more fun! Speaking of which, I cannot wait to show you my life-sized nutcracker king, Bjorn. Come with me into my tablescape room and say hello to him!

Everyone rises reluctantly and follows Lacey.

SCENE II

Christmas Eve at the Rubenstein house: Saggy and Ratso are sitting in front of their plasma screen TV, drinking Icehouse and playing GTA 4. Ratso is on the phone.

RATSO: Dude, you should totally come over here tonight. Bring your friends. We’ve got beer and shit. . . . Okay.

He closes his phone.

RATSO: Whore!

SAGGY: She coming?

RATSO: She will be later when I’m alone with her!

They both laugh for several minutes.

RATSO: Yeah, she might stop by and maybe bring some other bitches. Dude, you just totally got fucked by that dude! He shot your ass so many times, I can’t believe you aren’t dead.

Chunky enters carrying a KFC bucket.

RATSO: Hey fag.

CHUNKY: Jesus Christ, I hate my fucking family. I just got to watch my mom get shit-faced on box wine and my dad and brother practically start a fist fight because my brother didn’t sufficiently appreciate the SUV antlers Dad bought him.

RATSO: Fuck, that is some poor white trash shit going on. And where’s the KFC from?

CHUNKY: Leftovers from Christmas dinner. Want some? It’s Extra Crispy.

SAGGY: Hella yes.

He grabs a handful and sets it on the couch next to him to pick at while playing GTA.

RATSO: No dude, I’m fine. Want some Icehouse?

CHUNKY: Fuck yes. We should totally bong it.

RATSO: Fuck, I lent my bong to Bulge the night my brother broke that sink at that one dude’s house when he was fucking Rachel Goldblatt in the bathroom. Remember that, dicksmack?

SAGGY: Not really.

RATSO: Well, you were pretty fucked up on Jag bombs, but that was fuckin’ hilarious. I’ll never forget the look on that bitch’s face.

CHUNKY: Was that the party I missed because I was hunting with my dad and his friend that got arrested like a week later for having an eight-year-old girl tied up in his attic?

RATSO: Yeah, I think so.

Chunky finishes his beer in one go and opens another one against his Confederate flag belt buckle.

RATSO: Is that new, dude?

CHUNKY: The buckle? Yeah, my brother gave it to me.

RATSO: That shit looks dangerous, like if your pants were at a fucked up angle or maybe when you were pissing or some shit, that buckle could cut off the circulation to your dick.

CHUNKY (worried): You think? That sounds fucking painful.

RATSO: Yeah, my cousin plays soccer and he was too embarrassed to buy a new nutcup so he had the same one from when he was like nine until he was like fifteen, and his dick would turn blue and he had to go to the doctor and a bunch of people were all staring at his dick in the hospital. It sounded pretty fucked up.

SAGGY: Fucker!

He throws the controller, which lands under a Led Zeppelin poster.

RATSO (laughing): You shoot like a bitch! But seriously, do not break another controller. Remember how pissed Mom was the last time.

SAGGY: Somewhat.

CHUNKY: You’re lucky to even have a 360.

RATSO: Just because your family is too poor white rash to upgrade your Game Cube doesn’t mean we don’t love you, man. We share the wealth. Speaking of which, why aren;t those fucking bitches here yet?

SAGGY: It’s not Christmas without pussy.

CHUNKY: Well spoken, my man.

He bumps fists with Saggy as Ratso nods in solemn agreement.

SCENE III

Slim and Precious are hanging out in Precious’s room, listening to the Phil Spector Christmas album.

SLIM: So, shit wasn’t as bad as it could have been tonight.

PRECIOUS: For once, Lacey’s horrifying forays into ultra-alcoholic cocktail crafting was a boon.

SLIM: Yeah, it was pretty fucking hilarious when Uncle Dick opened that Aneros prostate stimulator that Dad got him from the store. Do you really think he’s going to stick a plastic thing in his ass so he can get off harder when he’s fucking Lacey?

PRECIOUS: Between you and me, that is one thing I can spend a thousand Christmases never thinking about.

SLIM: Dude, you have a point. What’s Boobs doing tonight?

PRECIOUS: Gyrating viciously on the laps of whatever men are poor and/or non-Christian enough to spend the holidays at the Vu. Gyrating, up and down, over and around, left and right, until sexy time explosion occurs.

SLIM: Jesus, Bitch. Those Borat references are so dead.

PRECIOUS: I have no idea what you are talking about.

SLIM: Anyway, I think Chunky has a thing for Boobs. He’s always asking about her and he sent me this IM that sort of implied he had a dream about donkey punching her or some shit.

PRECIOUS: Typical. That child looks like a piñata filled with semen. I’m sure Boobs has a stable of politically powerful johns and drug dealers who give her exactly what she wants in a way no high school boy ever would. Like a famous female hip-hop artist once said—and I paraphrase—Boobs don’t want no one minute man.

Slim grins sheepishly and adjusts himself.

PRECIOUS: Anyway, this is our chance to bond during the holiday time. Confide in me your darkest secrets, your secret fears, you fearful wishes, your wishful fantasies. I’m all ears.

SLIM: I’ve been thinking about a lot of shit lately, and when I think, it’s usually not a fucking good thing. But really, I just want people to act fucking normal. I mean, what the fuck else can you hope for?

PRECIOUS: World peace? Queer acceptance? The eradication of authoritarian hegemonic oppression of historically subjugated peoples?

SLIM: Be realistic, bitch! I’m still in high school. If I get drunk and hit on in the same week, it’s good times.

PRECIOUS: Oh, I remember those days, when aiming low meant something about urine and girls creamed themselves over the high school teacher that looked like Mr. Clean’s significantly more fetal younger brother. Enjoy it while it lasts. Soon you’ll be confronted with non-suburban people, the real possibility of weight gain, and cafeteria food. Enjoy your lithe teenage body while it lasts.

SLIM: Yeah, I guess. And dude, I still can’t believe Dad gave Uncle Dick something he’s supposed to shove up his own ass.

PRECIOUS: It is rather comical, I’ll give you that.

SCENE IV

Precious and Boobs are back at Bob’s, having coffee and scones with Jogs.

BOOBS: And then he took out a needle and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and asked if I would pierce his Prince Albert while he jacked off. What the hell is wrong with guys these days?

PRECIOUS: As much as I would hate nothing more than potentially sounding condescending, you may want to consider that your profession has a limiting effect on the quality of people you are particularly likely to encounter.

BOOBS: I’m not naïve, but there is a time and a place.

JOGS: I totally agree. I would never ask a girl to pierce my dick. Just like I would expect her never to ask to smell it. I mean, you gotta have some trust in a relationship. You can’t spell “relationship” without “us.”

BOOBS: Wise words, my man. If you only lost seventy pounds, I would so be dying to ride your jock.

JOGS: God damn it! Why does this always happen to me.

BOOBS: Get some lipo and call me in the morning.

PRECIOUS: All these standards of attractiveness are so retro-bourgeois. I mean, bodies are made of flesh. There are no bodies without organs; there cannot be bodies without flesh. I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess, but in the meantime, there’s no reason to imagine the possibility of a present that can’t happen until at least the future, if ever.

JOGS: More girls need to see it that way. How about a date?

PRECIOUS: Fuck no. I don’t care that you’re fat, but you’re totally ugly and you really need to see a dermatologist.

JOGS: Fuck both of you! Why can’t I have the fantastic genes of my sister? The lottery of birth is so tragic sometimes.

BOOBS: Don’t feel bad. You’ll find a fat bitch who will want you to roll her around and find the wet spot.

JOGS: Ugh, cliché cliché. I guess I just need to accept the tragedy of my existence.

PRECIOUS: True that. But irregardlessly, what is the story with your sister? Where did you hide this hot model bitch from us while we were in school together?

JOGS: She went to a different school because my parents thought Edina was getting too Jewish.

BOOBS: Smart choice.

PRECIOUS: That explains everything.

SCENE V

Slim and Chunky are having breakfast together in a coffee shop on Central Avenue.

SLIM: I fucking hate the holidays. You always think something is going to happen, but it’s just the same old shit.

CHUNKY: Yeah: you think there’ll be girls to fuck and parties to get fucked up at and lots of cool shit going down, but it’s just the same routine with lame presents and relatives getting drunk and screaming and shit like that.

SLIM: Why doesn’t life cooperate with us?

CHUNKY: Dude, the eternal fucking question. Ugly motherfuckers like Ratso and morons like Saggy get bitches left and right, while attractive, cool guys like us are having breakfast alone like two homos who spent the last night having an anal probe-a-thon. Speaking of which, I gotta shit. BRB.

Chunky walks toward the bathroom.

Slim stares into his mug of coffee contemplatively, absently picks up a bacon strip and bites off its tip, then sighs.

A couple at the next table toasts mimosas, smiling satisfactorily.

A server drops a tray of food on the ground and laughs.

Time refuses to stop.

END OF ACT III

END OF REVIEW

The 2008 Blake Review Part Two

*ACT TWO*

SCENE I

Slim stands at his front door, waiting to be picked up for an exciting party in his friends’ basement. His parents and sister are playing Mystery Date in front of the fireplace.

PRECIOUS: This Date looks like a hot lesbian. It’s so disturbing when boys like that have facial hair. I mean, of course I’m all for embracing the subversive potential of drag, but that doesn’t mean removing some of the rare attractiveness from campus.

SLIM: Fuck ever. You could have done what every normal person does and check Facebook to make sure there were lots of hot people at Sarah Lawrence. Instead, you made the free and rational choice to go to a college with a bunch of homos and bitches who don’t shave their legs and pits.

PRECIOUS: Some of that may be for axilism.

RAYMOND: You kids would be surprised about the kind of things people are sexually attracted to. People come to my store and buy stacks of magazines and videos with pictures of hairy women: hairy women in wheelchairs, hairy pregnant dwarf women, hairy women inserting automotive pistons into their anuses and vaginas . . .

WIFE: Now that is wacky! Ooh, let’s see who my mystery date is!

She opens the door to reveal her perfect match.

WIFE: Not exactly the face of an angel, but maybe he’ll make up for it downstairs.

RAYMOND: Where it counts!

SLIM: There’s Chunk-style. Gotta bounce, bitches.

WIFE: Have a lovely time!

Slim bounds down the stairs and gets in Chunky’s rust-colored El Camino.

CHUNKY: How’s it hanging?

SLIM: I don’t want to talk about it!

CHUNKY: Ever since our trip to the Vu, you’ve been uncharacteristically reluctant to discuss your own cock and balls. What gives?

SLIM: Your mama gives! And the bitch takes, too, from what I hear!

CHUNKY: So what? A bitch gotta make a living. What does your mom do when the cash is tighter than one of Michael Jackson’s potential victims?

SLIM: Dude, we’re totally rich. You think that the recession is going to make people stop jacking off?

CHUNKY: Fucking old people who don’t use the internet. I’m gonna start classes for them and your parents are going to be screwed.

SLIM: Why don’t you just try to hook up with Boobs Carlisle? Get a woman with a nice salary and live easy for the rest of high school.

CHUNKY: Good idea. Can your sister help a bro out with that?

SLIM: I’ll ask after she’s had a few Martha Stewart eggnogs on Christmas Eve.

CHUNKY: Noice.

SCENE II

Slim and Chunky are in the basement of the home of their friends, Julius “Saggy” Rubsenstein (so nicknamed because of his tendency to wear his pants like a black) and his brother, Ratso. Even though they are Jews, they have embraced the holiday spirit with cases of Bud Light emblazoned with the Claus family provided by their parents.

SLIM: Where the fuck is everyone? You didn’t tell us it was gonna be a four man sausage fest.

RATSO: Fuck you. A bunch of people are out of town and Bulge and a bunch of bitches are on the way.

CHUNKY: More beer for the rest of us.

SAGGY: Hella true.

SLIM: So what have you guys been doing on break?

RATSO: What the fuck, are you accusing me of not having a life and spending all my time posting on some web site for bitches? I have been going out and enjoying social activities, getting crunk in and out of the club, smoking piles of weed, and hooking up with hoes.

CHUNKY: We went to the Vu a couple days ago.

SAGGY: Hella awesome.

SLIM: It was actually pretty lame.

CHUNKY: Speak for yourself! They got Mr. Pibb and snatch! What else fucking is there in life?

SAGGY: Hella yes.

CHUNKY: Anyway, Slim here got a lap dance from some ho named Salsa and he won’t even tell me what went down. Or—I should say—up!

RATSO: Fuck, man, you gotta tell us.

SLIM: Dude, nothing happened! I mean, nothing didn’t happen . . . It’s just . . . I think it’s kind of fucked up that I’m supposed to tell my friends everything about everything that goes in or out of my body. Like, can’t I fucking shit or jack off and just keep it to myself?

CHUNKY: What the hell? We’re bros. Bros before hoes.

RATSO: What the fuck is wrong with you? This shit is just fucked up.

SAGGY: Hella mos’ def.

SLIM: Why? Why don’t we just pull out our dicks and compare them and then have an orgy and send pictures of it to everyone we know?

Saggy takes off his pants, which is not a particularly difficult feat for him.

SLIM: I was fucking kidding!

RATSO: Dude, Slim, you got some issues. And it’s pretty obvious what happened. So what? It happens to all of us.

CHUNKY: Yeah, we get it. So you didn’t last as long as you wanted to. I’m sure some random stripper bitch really cares. What, were you gonna ask her out afterward? “Let’s grab dinner at Maggiano’s and check out the new Dane Cook joint.”

SLIM: Fine. You win. Now give me another fucking beer and call Bulge to find out why the bitches aren’t here yet.

The doorbell rings.

RATSO: Bitches, check. Beer, check.

SAGGY: Hella.

SCENE III

Precious and Boobs are having coffee at Bob’s, a coffee shop on Lyndale with a diverse clientele including lesbians, bikers, and lesbian bikers.

PRECIOUS: It’s like the existence of strip clubs is one of the last things granting any sort of credence so second wave feminism. I just imagine, in the midst of a bed dance, your nipple releasing a single tear-shaped drop of breast milk that morphs into the disapproving face of Catharine MacKinnon.

BOOBS: Yeah, I don’t really philosophize about it, though. It’s hard to think a lot when you’re on oxycontin, methadone, crank, and D when I can get it.

PRECIOUS: Jesus Christ on a snickerdoodle! Have you considered rehab?

BOOBS: Oh, please. It’s way too expensive and I can quit whenever I want to.

An overweight boy approaches their table, holding a large café mocha and a brick of Rice Krispie bar.

BOY: Precious and Hope? This is so cool!

Precious and Hope look confused; obviously they do not recognize their admirer.

BOY: It’s me, Jogs Chignon. I know I look a bit different from high school. The freshman fifteen turned into more like fifty. It’s hard to stay svelte when automatic wheelchairs are just so fun. Plus, I really like beer and fried snack foods.

PRECIOUS: Jogs! I have to say, your weight gain is slightly horrifying, but it’s nice that you’re not giving in to the historical American disdain for the body and disquieting images of contemporary beauty.

JOGS: Yeah, pretty much once I realized I would never look as good in a loincloth as the dude from MGMT, I just decided to let myself go.

PRECIOUS: And your first name is a bit of an ironical performance now, or lack thereof. I heartily approve.

BOOBS: So, what are you doing back in the Minneapple?

JOGS: Same as you: Christmas break with the family.

BOOBS: Actually, I never left Minnesota. I live with my parents and I’m a stripper at the Vu.

JOGS: That must be fun!

BOOBS: Well, unlike every other woman in the Twin Cities, at least I’m getting paid to be sexually harassed.

JOGS: Nice! Anyway, I should get back to my friends, but I wanted to let you know about this fashion event that my sister’s putting on at Club Fantasy tonight. It’s going to be awesome and I can get you and anyone you want to bring in for free with a non-perishable food item.

He hands them a small, tastefully designed flier.

PRECIOUS (reading): “Fashion Fucking Fashion for the Motherfucking Holidays.” Now you’re speaking my language!

JOGS: See you tonight, then?

PRECIOUS: If my psyche withstands another day of being assaulted by the pressures of the telematic age plus my bitch parents, I’ll try.

BOOBS: I’ll check it out after work if I don’t find a john.

JOGS: Coolio.

He waddles back to his friends.

BOOBS: I don’t remember him having a sister.

SCENE IV

Precious, Slim, and Chunky are standing together next to a catwalk at Club Fantasy, waiting for the fashion show to start.

SLIM: I cannot believe how gay this crowd is. Can you catch gay by being near so many homos?

CHUNKY: Too bad I didn’t wear my asshole shield underwear.

PRECIOUS: Your queer fear is such a ridiculous put-on. Like you haven’t spent hours in sweaty locker rooms, engaging in football field ass-slapping and basket-grabbing, et cetera, et cetera. Like you really read XY Magazine for the articles.

SLIM: Fuck you. They have some useful tips on body hair management. Maybe you should get a subscription for your dyke friends at college.

CHUNKY: Pwned!

The lights dim for the show to start.

SLIM: I hope we get to see some titties.

PRECIOUS (whispering): Shhhhh! Behave!

An extremely flamboyant black man walks onstage wearing a salmon colored double-breasted suit jacket with brown leather pants and a matching fedora punctuated with a huge peacock plume.

EMCEE: Hello, ladies and ladies! This is Miss Joe, the bitch who started it all! And we’re here to check out the fierciest, fabbest, fantasticest fashions for ya’ll this holiday time. Here we go.

Explosive techno pumps through the speakers as the first model—a buff teenage boy wearing stonewashed gray denim shortalls cut off mid-thigh with denim UGG boots and pink glitter pasties—fiercely marches down the catwalk.

MISS JOE: Say hello to Armando, who looks stunning in this frothy confection of an ensemble available at Rainbow Road near the downtown Hyatt. Work it, bitch!

Armando erotically winks at Slim as he poses at the end of the catwalk.

SLIM: I just realized I have to take a huge shit.

He walks off toward the bathroom.

PRECIOUS (to Chunky): You aren’t going to leave, too?

CHUNKY: Fuck no. This is awesome.

Precious pats him on the back.

Slim returns just as the first female model hits the runway.

MISS JOE: Here is Jay, ready for a night on the town in this military-inspired halter dress with mock epaulets.

Slim is obviously entranced by Jay, a fierce walker who slaps her ass as she twirls at the end of the runway.

MISS Joe: Go girl! You better work, honey!

Jogs walks up to the group.

JOGS: I’m glad you could make it. How’d you like my sister?

He points to Jay just as she leaves the stage.

PRECIOUS: I would kill for an ass like that.

SLIM (aside): Me too.

JOGS (laughing): I gotta head backstage. See you after the show?

Precious shrugs.

SCENE V

All four members of the Cox family are gathered in the living room listening to Wife’s favorite Mannheim Steamroller album.

WIFE: This music is so gosh darn exhilarating! I feel so energized, it reminds me of the days with my first husband when we would have sex three or three and a half times in one sitting!

RAYMOND: Just the thought of that makes my balls hurt.

WIFE (laughing): This is why our relationship works so well. We’re life partners, not just starved horndogs pouncing on each other, having wild, animalistic sex all night.

SLIM: For the tenth time, shut the fuck up! Unless you’re buying me years of therapy for Christmas, I don’t want to hear about this disgusting shit.

WIFE: Oh Slim, someday you’ll find a sweetie to bang. It really can be something special when you find the right fit.

SLIM: I can feel the vomit struggling to escape.

WIFE: I’ll be quiet and enjoy the music. Just think, tomorrow it will be Christmas Eve.

PRECIOUS: One can only wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he returned to earth and saw Americans celebrating his birthday with an orgy of capitalist frenzy.

RAYMOND: It’s a real impasse, all right. But, you know, people come in to my store and buy the Jingle Balls Cock Sleeve, the Mistletoe Anal Tickler, and the Elfmaster 2009, so I roll with the punches.

PRECIOUS: That is something we cannot not do in this environment. I must depart and get my drank on now.

SLIM: Is that Jogs guy going to be at the party?

PRECIOUS: Why do you care, shit stain?

SLIM: His sister seemed nice.

Precious laughs, rolls her eyes, and rushes out.

RAYMOND: Now that your stupid feminist bitch sister is gone, there’s something your mother and I wanted to ask you about.

SLIM: What the fuck is it now?

RAYMOND: Well, you know we’re in for a few generations of economic horrors, and a growing boy like you needs spending money for food, fun, and fantasy products.

WIFE: It’s true. Wouldn’t you like to have the pride to go out and buy a burrito with your own money? Or a corn dog? Or a churro? Whatever you want to stuff in your mouth, you can get it yourself.

RAYMOND: So, how’d you like to try working for me? The boss man can be a pain in the booty, but the pay’s decent and you could learn about the family business.

SLIM: Don’t you have to be eighteen to sell porn and dildos and shit?

RAYMOND: Who cares? We could have our own family “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

SLIM: I don’t know. I’ll think about it or some shit.

RAYMOND: Don’t you want the satisfaction of knowing you sold a Fleshlight to someone who otherwise would have to use something less pleasurable and potentially less sanitary or even illegal?

SLIM: You’re not too consistent on the legality shit, dad.

WIFE: Your son has a point.

RAYMOND: Oh, fuck off for the love of all things holy. Anyway, sleep on it. Spend some time imagining what it would be like surrounded by hardcore pornography and relationship and pleasure enhancers for a few hours a week. Sweet dreams!

Slim goes upstairs and logs onto IM. Chunky immediately sends him a link to a video called “Peanut Butter Jar Fun.”

END OF ACT TWO