SCENE I
Samantha Chignon is at Ivy, an upscale clothing store in Uptown Minneapolis, shopping for an outfit to impress at the upcoming Barbizon call for models. The clerk is the usual flaming male Uptown type.
SAM: Are these skirts this season?
CLERK: The Marc By Marc? With the paillettes?
SAM: Those are so nice.
Johnnova Assnest sneaks up to Sam.
JOHNNOVA: Haven’t you heard? Paillettes are for tards! Those are about as hip as Kate Hudson wearing UGGs at a Winger reunion show at a sports bar in Shakopee.
SAM: I thought the saying was “Paillards are for tards,” and unlike you, I haven’t pounded any chicken in the recent past.
CLERK: Oh, snap, honey! Don’t cockblock my potential sale, though. In these economic times, if I don’t work that commission you better believe I’ll be bitchin’.
JOHNNOVA: Weak! Girl, you are on! Unlike this video ho . . . Seriously, Sam. You look borderline plus-sized in those jeans. And are they bootcut?
SAM: These are Sevens, and what the fuck?
JOHNNOVA: A hot buy from Bluefly? Always there when retail price is enough to scare.
SAM: That isn’t even witty! Hugh Jackman isn’t even feeling his Oscar job security take a minor dip!
CLERK: Count and pointercount! Watching two fierce bitches trade zingers reminds me of my days judging high school debate. If I were straight I would be pitching a tent a family of four could sleep comfortably in right now.
SAM: Four fruit flies, probably.
JOHNNOVA: Based on his feet, I’d say at least four sugar gliders.
SAM: I wouldn’t want to be guilty of penile misunderestimation.
CLERK: Sooner or later you bitches always turn on me.
SAM: I’ll go take my business away from unisex cattiness.
CLERK: Didn’t Pitchfork just give their album an 8.4?
Sam storms out of the store and runs a few stores down to Jimmy John’s, where her brother, Jogs, is waiting for her in front of the remains of a consumed sub, only the pickle uneaten.
JOGS: I just exhausted my calories for the whole weekend.
SAM: Evil whorecunt!
She grabs his pickle and bites a huge chunk out of it.
JOGS: I hope you weren’t talking about me. Or that pickle.
SAM: No, that walking yeast infection Johnnova is everywhere! It’s like she’s stalking me.
JOGS: Are you possibly facilitating that with Facebook?
SAM: Not unless she knows a lot more about atbash ciphers than I’d guess. But that gives me an idea. . . . I need to talk to your friend Boobs.
JOGS: “Friend.” Don’t rub it in.
He rubs his smaller-than-before but currently bloated stomach resignedly in illustration.
SCENE II
Slim, Chunky, and Ratso are hanging out in the latter’s basement, drinking Schlitz Ice and listening to the Doors.
RATSO: Dude, that scene in Apocalypse Now with this song is the greatest fucking scene in a movie ever!
SLIM: Oh, please. It’s not even the best Coppola scene. The restaurant scene in The Godfather rapes anything in Apoc Now.
RATSO: Wrong, but you would say that, fag.
SLIM: Fuck you! And, hello: Chinatown? Scorsese? Kubrick?
CHUNKY: Shamalama? That guy who did Superbad?
RATSO AND SLIM: Noob!
The doorbell rings upstairs.
RATSO: That dick-waving cocksucker is back from Iowa! He better have gotten some fucking serious cash shoved up his . . . What was that thing called, Slim?
SLIM: Skintastic Leopard Fantasy Enhancement Pouch.
Saggy bounds downstairs, throwing his gym bag, which almost knocks over a poster from a Monet exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts in 1983.
RATSO: Dude! Mom will shellac your ass if you break that again!
CHUNKY: It’s already shellacked, just like mine! Dude, I don’t spend hours on my glutes to obscure the definition with fucking hair!
SLIM: You have to shave your ass?
CHUNKY: Sugar. But yes.
RATSO: Of course! Don’t tell me yours is hairless!
SLIM: Isn’t that normal?
Chunky and Ratso laugh uproariously.
CHUNKY: Bareass homo!
SAGGY: I’m hella jealous.
RATSO: The inevitable has occurred. Your new job has made you a flaming homosexual gay faggot.
SAGGY: Hella no.
RATSO: Then what did happen?
CHUNKY: Yeah! Did any fags try to cup your nuts or peel your carrot?
SAGGY: Beer, then talk.
Ratso hands him a beer, which Saggy drinks in one go, then belches thunderously.
SAGGY: Another.
SCENE III
Precious Cox and her roommate Julissa are cleaning their apartment in preparation for Spring Break.
PRECIOUS: It was so sad, seeing those lower-income kids in brand new bondage gear tearing up just because I’ll be gone for a week.
JULISSA: And the tears could react with the metallic spikes on their codpieces!
PRECIOUS: I know! And that shit isn’t real silver, but some toxic shit like when you buy a ring from a grocery store vending machine when you’re seven and it leaves a green rash on your finger.
JULISSA: I always imagined an STD would be the vaginal equivalent of that.
PRECIOUS: Delish! I’ll ask my stripper friend. She has to have stories, though hopefully regarding the genitals of others.
The doorbell rings.
PRECIOUS: Ooh, is that some manpower? I hope you requested a hung Latino ranchero!
JULISSA: No, sadly. It’s Gunnar, retuning that Cynthia 12” I left at the station.
PRECIOUS: Any excuse.
JULISSA (going to the door): It’s not my fault! I was stoned and accidentally took La Bouche instead.
PRECIOUS: But that’s so much better.
Julissa shrugs and lets Gunnar in.
GUNNAR: Here’s your record . . . Hey, Precious! What you up to?
PRECIOUS: Just bracing myself for my fast-approaching return to the Land of Pop: The accents exhibiting the nasal legacy of generations of Nordic ancestors, the antithesis of the global subaltern potentially ironically back to a subject position some of us consider problematic, ideologically or otherwise.
GUNNAT: Homi Bhabha, eat your heart out.
PRECIOUS: That is dehumanizing vis-à-vis Aztecs.
JULISSA: There aren’t any Aztecs, though.
PRECIOUS: Says you!
GUNNAR: Yeah, extinction assumes a notion of temporality that Riemann shattered decades before Foucault’s asshole suffered a verbally congruous but literal fate.
PRECIOUS: Anyway, it’s Spring Break. Let’s bracket the timespace shit and break out the Thunderbird.
GUNNAR: I only drink Viognier.
PRECIOUS: Don’t push your luck, unless you want a horde of nine-year-olds in bondage gear sicced on you—and that’s pre-April Fool’s!
SCENE IV
Slim and his mother are sitting in their living room, waiting for Raymond to return from picking Precious up at the airport.
WIFE: Every time your sister comes home, I have this silly fantasy that she’s going to really try to make herself attractive to normal men. She could be such a hot piece if she just made an effort.
SLIM: Dude, I think she’s probably considered something like that at college. And now I’m never going to be able to jack off again without crying.
WIFE: I certainly understand; after all, I was brought up in a house where Catholic guilt comingled with puritanical abusiveness. We were taught to be afraid of our own parts.
SLIM: Before I go vomit and hope that fucking image is forever expunged from my psyche, I should note that some of my friends could use that kind of home environment.
WIFE: Oh, no, honey. You don’t want to wish that devilish fate on nubile, young high school boys.
The doorbell rings and wife does a plié of joy on the way to answer.
Precious is dressed for the holiday in pale green patent flats, an orange skirt with a print of the molecule structure of pollen molecules, and a khaki riding jacket over a yellow silk shirt.
WIFE: I hope Spring Break is as festive as your colorful outfit!
PRECIOUS: That’s all we can deign to hope for in an atmosphere marked predominately by the panic fear of the collapse of global markets and the system of objects that thrusts the hyperreality of the quotidian into previously untold orders of simulation.
RAYMOND: Not to mention the economy these days! Although thankfully those new finger vibes have been selling faster than it would take Slim to lose his virginity to an Israeli hooker!
SLIM: I’ll save my shekels for falafel.
PRECIOUS: That’s so played out on the sandwich scale. Even bánh mì is becoming the new torta.
RAYMOND: You can buy tortas as the Mehican place two doors down from my store. Their employees are some of the most loyal patrons of the jackoff booths, but the stench in there after their visits is pretty ripe.
SLIM: That’s a fucking understatement.
WIFE: I wonder if it has anything to do with those wife-beaters they always rock?
PRECIOUS: Have you been watching Juno again?
SLIM: Bitch, dudes do not fucking talk like that. Michael Cera would get his faggot ass beat in so hard if he showed up to a party here.
PRECIOUS: Maybe he’d like that. I’ve always surmised that his doughy, sexless façade is hiding a serious taste for horsewhips, hot wax, and cock worshipping.
RAYMOND: Then he should come to my store, especially if he’ll accept strap-ons for that worshipping!
SCENE V
Slim and Precious are having brunch at a revisionist hipster diner near Lake and Hiawatha.
SLIM: So they were about to get booked for some fucking huge contract to perform at clubs and shit and get mad rich, and Saggy was making baller cash . . .
PRECIOUS: “Baller” in more ways than one, presumably.
SLIM: He’d never let a guy hit that, but apparently his moves were making fags drool or some shit.
PRECIOUS: That says something tragic about standards in the gay community, unless he got way better at dancing since that video first hit the internet.
SLIM: Fags will be fags.
PRECIOUS: I guess if thirty-year-old men are obsessed with dressing like teenagers, they may as well cut to the chase and reel in the AE, AF, Hollister, etc., crowd.
SLIM: Well, they won’t get his jock anywhere else, because his adult entertainment career is on hiatus.
PRECIOUS: Why?
SLIM: They found out he’s seventeen.
PRECIOUS: Tragic. Nine-year-olds can hover—and, in fact gyrate—under the radar of censorship, but sexually agentic teens like your friends are publicly infantilized.
SLIM: I sure as fuck wouldn’t go that far.
PRECIOUS: They only want you when you’re seventeen. When you’re twenty-one, you’re no fun.
SLIM: That sounds familiar.
PRECIOUS: That’s the first line of the song Boobs does her pole act to. I should really call her.
SLIM: These huevos rancheros are going to cause a fiesta in my digestive tract.
PRECIOUS: I love being home.
A table of heavily tattooed twenty-somethings toast bacon mimosas at the next table. A man with a monocle erotically plucks a gherkin out of his bloody bull. A waitress drops a fork on the ground; the metallic clang echoes through the poor acoustics of the dining room.
Spring Break has only just begun.
END OF PART III
END OF EPISODE
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