Memories of Obama’s 2009 Inauguration: Getting Wasted with the Enemy

I spent the afternoon drinking with two young Republicans, perhaps the only lingering Bushites who didn’t bail town that historic- and brutally cold- day 8 years ago. We were hunkered down at a Holiday Inn bar, a mile or so away from the massive throng of people congregating at the National Mall, watching (or, more likely, listening to) Obama being sworn in. They were in their early 20’s, Evan and Rachel, two out of work staffers, more disconcerted over the fact W. couldn’t run for a third term than McCain- a less than staunch conservative- failing to win the election. Watching the small TV behind the bar, they jeered at our new President as he delivered his speech. I admonished the millennials (I was a decade older, in my 30’s), proclaiming that this was Obama’s day and they should respect the process- and, in turn, democracy. They grumbled into their beers, obliging, perhaps, because I bought had the pints.

I arrived in Washington as dawn broke, a brilliant reddish-orange sunrise providing a worthy backdrop for the momentous event. The Greyhound bus left New York City sometime after midnight. Though I waited in line for over an hour, I deemed myself fortunate to make the cut, considering the slew of disappointed ticket holders left behind in Port Authority. The five hour bus ride was one of unmitigated joy. The sixty or so passengers- mostly black, mostly young- shared food, swapped stories, and belted out songs of hope and victory.  An overwhelming sense of pride swelled inside me- a feeling that hasn’t been duplicated since, and likely never will.

I had no concept of what a million people looked like. Few, I imagine, do. The largest crowd I had ever seen was 100,000 or so at the annual UCLA-USC football game. At least ten times that number flocked to D.C. that bone chilling day. And, unlike the collegiate turf war in Los Angeles, there was no division of partisanship in this gathering. As I strolled towards the Capitol with the rest of the herd, passing a multitude of vendors hawking everything from hot chocolate to bumper stickers, anxiety coursed through my body. Despite the wondrous bonhomie that electrified the air, it was far too much stimuli to handle, particularly for one prone to crippling panic attacks.

The tunnel that led towards the Capitol was already clogged with an impenetrable cluster of happy, smiling faces- all ages, all races- some chanting, some singing. Not wanting to be trapped in the burgeoning crowd, I stood atop a five-feet wall outside the entryway. From every direction, swarms of pedestrians, thousands and thousands of ’em, streamed towards the Capitol, a never ending flow. Perched on an elevated platform, alone, eyes soaking in the majestic scene, more than a few participants thought I was a cop (or FBI agent), searching for troublemakers. When I politely refused their invitations to join them in the celebration, their suspicions were seemingly confirmed. But there was no way I was going to thrust myself into that claustrophobic horde of bodies, no matter how harmonious- in the bitter cold, no less. History took a backseat to pragmatism. I hopped off the wall, burrowed through the crowd- a salmon going against a fierce current- and, like any anxiety-riddled traveler, went searching for the nearest bar.

By the time the speech was over, Evan and Rachel were good and drunk. They dropped their partisan angst and gave into the weightiness of the moment. Engaging in jocular banter, I asked Evan to name three accomplishments of the Bush administration. Hard pressed to find an answer- to be fair, the alcohol had taken effect- he slurred that ‘Bush wasn’t a racist,’ an indirect reference, I suppose, for his aid package to Africa. When the karaoke began, he became loud and boisterous. So much so, the bouncer (yes, the Holiday Inn had a bouncer that day) kicked him out. With Rachel’s prodding, I lobbied on his behalf. Maybe because he considered me a responsible adult- I was mistaken for many erroneous attributes that day- the bouncer grudgingly allowed Evan back inside.

An hour later, thoroughly intoxicated, it was time to say goodbye to my new friends- we said we’d keep in touch, but, naturally, never did- leaving Rachel in charge of Evan’s supervision. I stumbled out of the bar and staggered back towards the bus station. I had to catch the 6 o’clock Greyhound to Philly, where I would fly back to Los Angeles. Tramping through the frigid conditions as dusk settled in, I was comforted by the notion that I had witnessed, firsthand, a glorious piece of American history, even if it was at a third-rate hotel with a couple of Obama haters.

PAST DUE opening

EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sunny day. Magnificent yachts line the harbor. Down a wooden pier, each boat gets smaller and smaller… at the end, a tiny, ragged sailboat- a rusted bike lays on the deck.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and books from a wide range of subjects. A fraternity paddle and photos of happy, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed ‘SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL’ T-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk.

Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat (SAUCY) sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: Know this gonna fuck up your credit, don’tcha? Shit, you won’t be able to get a Discover card- and they hand out those to the fucking homeless…

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his laptop as he munches cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

He opens World of Warcraft, a fantasy game. Chooses an avatar- healer. Next, occupation. Scrolls through all the options. Like in his real life, it’s a super tough decision…

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. He eyes his cell: a ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector.
He shudders, fear coursing through him. Declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to the game. Back to fantasy.

PHILLY GIRLZ OPENING SCENE (Female-Driven 48 Hours)

EXT. COLONIAL MANOR, PHILADELPHIA SUBURB

Ritzy ‘hood of the Grey Poupon crowd. Mercedes and Bentleys pack the spacious driveway. Classical musical plays…

INT. KITCHEN, MANOR

A big-time lawyer and his pals nibble stuffed mushrooms & sip wine spritzers, chatting about hedge funds- rich guy shit.

They’re gathered to watch the Super Bowl. Well, in theory, anyway. They think a turnover’s a fucking pastry. Fortunately-

ANGRY VOICES O.S.: Ah, bullshit! Cocksucker! Fuck you!

LIVING ROOM.

A flurry of beer cans PELT the 100-inch plasma on the wall.

Six hardcore fans- decked head to toe in Eagles gear- SPRING off the plush sofa, chucking the finger at the screen.

KATE (35), a Philly detective who could pass for a Jersey trucker, is the leader of these misfits. After all, she’s the big-time lawyer’s girlfriend- she invited these heathens.

KATE: Hey, c’mon! JESUS! This ain’t Stahley’s. Fuck. (to lawyer, explaining) Super Bowl tradition. You throw cans and curse- brings good luck.

MIKEY (40), her skinny, dim-witted brother, eyes her quizzically.

MIKEY: It does? Well, shit.

Pounds his beer so he can hurl the empty can.

KATE (grumbles): Goddammit. Knew I shouldn’t brought you fucking idiots.

Just then, she gets a text. Horror spreads across her face.

KATE: Looks like the ref’s not the only one robbing us. Some asshole just jacked the Mint.

MIKEY: What, like the gum?

KATE: Yeah. Someone robbed ‘gum.’

A fat dude, BROWNIE, scarfs down tortilla chips drowning in bean dip.

BROWNIE: Peppermint or spearmint? Can never tell the difference.

MIKEY: Fuck ya talkin’ about? One’s green, one’s blue- like Eagles, Cowboys.

BROWNIE: Fuck you, Cowgirls!

MIKEY (grabs his dick): Suck on this, Jerry Jones!

KATE: No, dickheads. The U.S. Mint. You know, the place they make coins? Things you use to pay for your haircuts?

Snatches her purse. Tosses a can of beer inside. And another.

MIKEY: You’re goin’ to the office now?

KATE: Duty calls, bitch.

Slugs down her beer as the lawyer sashays over.

KATE: And you assholes are leaving, too. I can’t trust you here alone.

MIKEY: What?! Game ain’t over yet.

LAWYER: It’s alright, babe. We’re in the ‘bro zone.’ Go Eagles! Mess ‘em up!

The guys eye the douchebag sipping a wine spritzer.

KATE: Fine. Don’t bitch at me when there’s puke in the bean dip.

The lawyer rushes over to greet her before she goes. All sexy-

LAWYER: Hey, babe. Don’t you wanna tell me something?

KATE: Yeah. You’re low on Kettle One.

And bolts out the door.

BROWNIE: Awright, so… which one’s green and which one’s blue?

MIKEY: Ah, Jesus Christ.

Respect my authora-tah! The (Not So) Shocking Similarities Between Trump & Cartman

Cartman’s been 10 years old since 1997, the year the iconoclastic show South Park was born. If the big-boned, foul-mouthed adolescent aged like a normal human being, Cartman would be in his early 30’s right now… and more than likely (okay, definitely) a huge Trump supporter. And if he was in his seventies- if animated characters, like canines, age at an accelerated pace- he could actually be Trump. The similarities between the two are startling. Think about it: they’re both morally corrupt narcissists who loath poor people, liberals, and minorities. The perpetual fourth grader and the current President of the United States both believe they’re the supreme leader of their respective worlds whose authority should never- under any circumstances- be questioned, let alone challenged. If you’re a fan of South Park, you’ll recall the episode about the boys’ once beloved water park being (allegedly) overtaken by minorities. Cartman sang a dirge about it, an anthem that could be blasted at Trump rallies.

‘What has happened to this place?/I don’t recognize it anymore/It used to be so fun and special/What is life worth living for?/ The dream is dead/Our land is gone/There’s a hole in my heart/And I can’t go on/There are too many minorities (minorities)/At my water park (my water park)/ This was our land, our dream (our dream)/and they’ve taken it all away/They just keep coming and coming (minorities)/I tried to go and tell the police/But even the authorities/Are minorities (are minorities)/At my water park/There’s no place for me to sit anymore/And the lines just keep getting crazier/There are Mexicans all around me/The lazy river has never been lazier/It’s a 40 minute wait to go down one slide/And the instructions are in Spanish on the Zip Line ride (just do it in English!)/There are too many minorities (too many)/At my water park (somebody do something)/Where did they all come from/Why can’t they leave this land alone/And it’s such a tragedy (feel a bit like dying)/We looked the other way too long/We’ve got to change our priorities/And get all these minorities/ Out of my water park/(Minorities) Mexicans and Asian/Black people/I think I even saw Native Americans (gross)/God I’m asking please/Get all of these minorities/Out of my water park (my water park)’

Okay, I’m pretty sure I could stop right here and you’d get the point. But for the proverbial shits and giggles (a really odd phrase, btw; bowel movements and laughter should never be lumped together), let’s carry on with more Trump- er, Cartmanisms.

‘The only way to fight hate is with even more hate!’

This could be the unofficial motto of the Trump administration. The Orange One reacts to any perceived slight, whether real or imagined, as a sucker punch to his privates. Cue up Twitter and prepare for a Category 5 storm… misspellings and all. And in perfect Orwellian fashion, the President accuses others- the media, primarily- for inciting the animosity. His rallies are breeding grounds for hate and have undoubtedly led to such tragedies as Charlottesville. Not surprisingly, Trump defended the white supremacists responsible for killing a protester. At the very least, he engaged in moral equivalence, claiming both sides were to blame… but more on his racism later.

‘I’m not fat, I just have a sweet hockey body.’

Trump’s delusion regarding his appearance was never more apparent when he posted a photo of his 73-year-old, heavily made up face on Rocky Balboa’s buff body. Despite a recent, unscheduled visit to Walter Reed hospital- decidedly not for a physical, which are always prearranged- the President claims, naturally, to be in perfect health. But like his taxes and grades, we’ll never know the truth. However, based on his protruding gut and affinity for fried chicken, I think we can safely assume that his health is far less than perfect.

‘Kenny’s family is so poor that yesterday they had to put their cardboard box up for a second mortgage!’

It’s no secret that Trump has always harbored a hearty disdain for the poor, particularly those who are non-white. In his grand delusion, Trump believes he’s a self-made man, completely discounting the millions that were gifted to him by his father. As President, Trump has shredded the safety net for the poor. Among the dozens of charitable programs his administration has gutted, food stamps, housing rental assistance and job training for low-income youth have all been victims of the chopping block. And, of course, there’s his messianic crusade to rid the country of Obamacare as if it was an infectious insect.

‘Alright, y’all, keep your eyes peeled and your guns ready. There’s a heap of Mexicans out there who want nothing more than to sneak past our border, and we’ve got to stop them!’

Ah, yes. Trump’s most notorious target of pure, unadulterated hatred: the Mexicans. Whether it’s the supposed wall he’s building to keep out the vermin- with the vermin’s own dough, no less- or denouncing the citizenry as drug smugglers, criminals, and rapists, Trump’s treatment of our Southern neighbor is undeniably deplorable. And if that word sounds familiar, it’s the same invective Hillary used to described Trump’s supporters. While she certainly wasn’t wrong (hey, if the basket fits…), Hillary would have been better served if the derisive term was lobbed directly at the leader of the hatemongers himself, rather than his loyal acolytes. It would’ve had the benefit of being more accurate, too.

‘Dolphins, Eskimos, who cares? It’s all a bunch of tree-hugging hippie crap.’

The most powerful man in the world believes climate change is a hoax. Yes, still, as we approach the year 2020 with all the conclusive scientific data at our disposal. That’s why (in his not so infinite wisdom) he yanked us out of the Paris Agreement, a global initiative that aims to, ya know… save the f’ng planet. Since he took office, Trump has rolled back environmental regulations and fought the (not so good) fight to keep fossil fuels prospering. He’s like a stubborn explorer refusing to sail to far stretches of the world because he fears tumbling off the edge of the Earth. And in another bout of Orwellianism- and I’m 99% sure he’s never even heard of the author, let alone read his books- the Trump administration has removed the words ‘climate change’ from government reports. Flat Earthers, unite!

‘Sorry, I don’t make the rules. I just think them up and write them down.’

Our foreign policy, in a nutshell. Especially as it relates to Turkey. Only this Cartmanism goes too far; Trump doesn’t actually write his so-called rules down. After a phone call with his buddy Erdogan, Trump decides it’s high time to abandon the Kurds, our greatest ally in the Middle East. And, by doing so, gives hundreds of ISIS fighters a get-out-of-jail-free card. Naturally, slaughter ensues.  No one, not even his biggest sycophants, thought this was a prudent strategy. After a few days of constant criticism, Trump alters course and lobbies his friend for a ceasefire. The President claims victory, of course, as if his rash decision and abrupt about-face were all part of a master plan. ‘Sometimes you have to let kids fight it out.’ Cartman would heartily agree.

‘I’m gonna need an engineer, a scientist, and of course a black person who can sacrifice himself if something goes wrong.’

You can’t just have one blurb on Trump’s racism. After all, there’s so many minority groups out there… and no one has been more victimized by Trump than African-Americans. You can go back to the early Seventies when, as a budding real estate mogul, he flatly wouldn’t rent to black folks. A ‘c’ (for ‘colored’) was scrawled on the application, a scarlet letter of sorts for racial discrimination. In the Eighties, he called for the death penalty of the Central Park Five, a group of black kids who were ultimately- and completely- exonerated after spending years in prison. He even took out a full page ad in the New York Times to assure a guilty verdict. The next chapter of his bigotry involves Obama’s birth certificate. This bizarre campaign for the nation’s first black President to submit proof that he wasn’t born in Africa- and (egads!) a Muslim- propelled the reality star into the political world. And as commander-in-chief, he ceremoniously referred to African countries as ‘shitholes.’ Churchill, he is not.

‘I would never let a woman kick my ass. If she tried something, I’d like HEY! Get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie!’

You can’t have a complete view of the 45th President without mentioning his scurrilous treatment of women. From his parading past nude, underage girls at Miss Teen USA pageants to boasting about ‘grabbing ’em by the pussy,’ to the numerous sexual harassment suits filed against him, Trump has left an ignominious trail of abusing the fairer gender.  Then there’s the verbal grenades he has launched at celebrities such as Rosie O’ Donnell, Megyn Kelly, and Meryl Streep, all laced with misogyny. And, of course, his Twitter rants could be compiled into a comprehensive handbook for female bashing. I’m pretty sure that was an actual major at Trump University.

‘You gotta respect my authora-tah!’

Trump thinks ‘strong man’ is a term of endearment. Never mind the fact that it’s been applied to the most ruthless autocrats in history. The President admires leaders like Putin and Jong Un whose authority is supreme and unquestioned. Hell, he aspires to be them. Even as impeachment looms, the President still believes he’s above the law. Bill Maher came up with a dictator checklist for Trump… he marks off all but one. When he dons a military uniform- a very distinct possibility- it’s officially time to panic. Maher’s greatest fear (mine, too) is that Trump will not relinquish office if he loses next year’s election. He’s already working the refs, claiming his opponents are rigging the votes. If Cartman was running for fourth grade president, that’s exactly what he would do.

Opening pages of CAPITOL OFFEN$E

EXT. PALATIAL ESTATE, RURAL NORTH CAROLINA — NIGHT

Like the opening of Citizen Kane (we’re in black and white,
folks) an imposing, wrought iron fence protects a massive
property. Posted on the gate, a menacing sign: NO TRESPASSING

Behind the fence, a colossal palace surrounded by endless
fields of tobacco plants. Over this, a 1940’s-style narrator:

NARRATOR V.O.: … Legendary tobacco king Duke Bentson in the battle of his life, fighting the scourge of cancer…

INT. BEDROOM, PALATIAL ESTATE

DUKE BENTSON (70), white-haired and deathly ill, lies in bed,
clenching a snow globe with a miniature White House inside.

NARRATOR V.O.: … He amassed his fortune for one reason and one reason only: for his son to become President…

Duke shakes the globe. Instead of snow, dollar bills fall.

NARRATOR V.O.: … His firstborn, John Junior, was certain to carry out that destiny- Harvard grad, military officer…

The globe slips from his hand as he utters one word: ‘power’

NARRATOR V.O.: … But he was killed in that terrible war in Grenada. So the obligation fell upon his second son, Jack, who nearly fulfilled…

The globe SHATTERS on the floor. Dozens of tiny $1,000,000 bills lay atop the smashed White House, blanketing it.

NARRATOR V.O.: … His father’s wish, losing his bid for the White House three years ago in a hotly contested primary. He now serves as Vice President, one step away from the Oval Office.

Duke gasps- his final one?- then his eyes close.

EXT. COURTYARD (‘THE LAWN’), UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA — DAY

JACK BENTSON (40’s), handsome and folksy (think Will Ferrell)
gives a speech to the graduates. He’s confident, commanding.

JACK: … There’s an old saying in Virginia- I know it’s in Carolina, it’s probably in Virginia- that says early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and…

Flustered, he glances around, looking for his trusted adviser… he’s nowhere to be found. Awkward silence.

JACK: … Mize.
(nailed it)
Makes you Johnny Mize. And in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

The students gawk at one another, befuddled.

INT. FRATERNITY HOUSE, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA — NIGHT

Jack plays an intense game of flip cup with coeds. It’s an
even match & he’s anchorman. He claps, cheering on his team.

JACK: We got this, guys! Let’s focus.

The gorgeous, busty blonde next to him flips her Solo cup.
Jack chugs his beer & plinks the cup over on his first shot.

JACK: YES!!!

He celebrates with his teammates. Swept up in the frenzy,
Jack goes to chest bump the blonde- she whips back, whoa!

JACK:  Sorry.

One of the drunk partygoers captures it on video.

INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL — DAY

Jack reads a children’s book to a class of first graders. A
SECRET SERVICE AGENT (30’s, black) whispers into Jack’s ear.
His face quickly sours- some horrific tragedy just occurred.

JACK: Can I finish this real quick? Dying to see how it turns out.

The agent stares him down. Fucking serious right now?

EXT. AIRPORT RUNWAY — DAY

Jack steps onto the ramp of Air Force Two.

REPORTER: … After all your recent blunders, are you concerned the President might replace you?

Jack snorts. To the secret service agent at his side:

JACK: That guy’s a total douche- bag, nozzle, and the box it came in.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT: Uh, we’re still live.

JACK: Let’s edit that out.

And strides onto the plane.

BOBBY V.O.: Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

PHILLY GIRLZ (THINK FEMALE-DRIVEN 48 HOURS) PRISON SCENE

EXT. RIVERSIDE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY (WOMEN’S PRISON)

Stodgy brick building. Barbwire lines the perimeter.

INT. LOBBY, WOMEN’S PRISON

Kate’s at the counter. The beefy GUARD processes paperwork.

GUARD: Oof. Good luck with that nutjob. Been in solitary the last month.

KATE: I don’t need the play-by-play, Merrill.

GUARD: Let’s just say she wouldn’t win Miss Congeniality.

KATE: Who gives a shit? Neither would I.

VISITOR’S ROOM.

Kate sits behind the glass divider, anxious. She fishes a flask out of her purse and takes a quick swig. Just then, Sheila swaggers in, her hair all nappy, her eyes laced with malice. She takes a seat on the other side of the divider.

SHEILA: Who the fuck is you?

KATE: Your savior, bitch. Think Jesus with a nice rack.

SHEILA: Whatchoo, lawyer or somethin’?

KATE: Fuck no! Look like a lawyer to you?

SHEILA (studies her): Yeah. Mine was a white trash piece of shit, too.

KATE: Here’s the thing about trash- it’s colorblind. Yep, can’t fly jets.

SHEILA: I’ll cut you, bitch.

KATE: Yeah? Well, guess what? My knife’s bigger.

SHEILA: You lucky you on the other side a’ this glass.

KATE: I ain’t the scumbag that robbed the Link.

SHEILA: Aw, man, that’s bullshit! Asshole done set me up. Didn’t get a fair trial or nothin.’

KATE: I know.

SHEILA: Then spring my ass loose, bitch!

KATE: That’s the problem with you ‘vics- you don’t know nothing’s free.

SHEILA: You right- shit ain’t free. Whatchoo gonna do for me?

KATE: Let’s just say I happen to know the best defense attorney in the state.

SHEILA: Yeah? You fucking him?

KATE (taken aback): When I’m in the mood. How’dya know?

SHEILA: I’m jawn, bitch.

KATE: Not only can he get your ass out, he can get your shit expunged- so you can actually have a life when you get outta here.

SHEILA: System all fucked up. Can’t get no job, ‘partment. Fuckin’ white man-

KATE: Can it, Rosa Parks. Whaddya know about the Link? No bullshit.

SHEILA: Awright, look. This guy name Eddie set it all up- short dude, big dick. I been to his house, I know where the nigga lives.

KATE: Address?

SHEILA: I ain’t Mapquest, bitch.

KATE: Mapquest? Damn, four years is a long time.

SHEILA: I don’t know the name a’ the street or nothin’, but I know where it is. Get me out, I show ya.

KATE: Yeah, okay. Think I was born yesterday?

SHEILA: Hell, no! You old as fuck.

KATE: Yeah? When’s the last time you got carded? 1982?

SHEILA: Man, fuck you! I’m almost out, I don’t need this shit.

Kate thinks… realizes she’s out of options. Sighs.

KATE: Better not fuck me over.

SHEILA: I was thinkin’ the same damn thing.

KATE: Try anything, I’ll shoot your ass.

SHEILA: Talk a lotta shit for a white girl. You from here, ain’tcha?

KATE: I’m jawn, bitch.

SHEILA: (a beat) Awright, then.

PHILLY GIRLZ (think female-driven 48 HOURS) Opening Scene

EXT. COLONIAL MANOR, PHILADELPHIA SUBURB

Ritzy ‘hood of the Grey Poupon crowd. Mercedes and Bentleys pack the spacious driveway. Classical musical plays…

INT. KITCHEN, MANOR

A big-time lawyer and his pals nibble stuffed mushrooms & sip wine spritzers, chatting about hedge funds- rich guy shit.

They’re gathered to watch the Super Bowl. Well, in theory, anyway. They think a turnover’s a fucking pastry. Fortunately-

ANGRY VOICES O.S.: Ah, bullshit! Cocksucker! Fuck you!

LIVING ROOM.

A flurry of beer cans PELT the 100-inch plasma on the wall.

Six hardcore fans- decked head to toe in Eagles gear- SPRING off the plush sofa, chucking the finger at the screen.

KATE (35), a Philly detective who could pass for a Jersey trucker, is the leader of these misfits. After all, she’s the big-time lawyer’s girlfriend- she invited these heathens.

KATE: Hey, c’mon! JESUS! This ain’t Stahley’s. Fuck. (to lawyer, explaining) Super Bowl tradition. You throw cans and curse- brings good luck.

MIKEY (40), her skinny, dim-witted brother, eyes her quizzically.

MIKEY: It does? Well, shit.

Pounds his beer so he can hurl the empty can.

KATE (grumbles): Goddammit. Knew I shouldn’t brought you fucking idiots.

Just then, she gets a text. Horror spreads across her face.

KATE: Looks like the ref’s not the only one robbing us. Some asshole just jacked the Mint.

MIKEY: What, like the gum?

KATE: Yeah. Someone robbed ‘gum.’

A fat dude, BROWNIE, scarfs down tortilla chips drowning in bean dip.

BROWNIE: Peppermint or spearmint? Can never tell the difference.

MIKEY: Fuck ya talkin’ about? One’s green, one’s blue- like Eagles, Cowboys.

BROWNIE: Fuck you, Cowgirls!

MIKEY (grabs his dick): Suck on this, Jerry Jones!

KATE: No, dickheads. The U.S. Mint. You know, the place they make coins? Things you use to pay for your haircuts?

Snatches her purse. Tosses a can of beer inside. And another.

MIKEY: You’re goin’ to the office now?

KATE: Duty calls, bitch.

Slugs down her beer as the lawyer sashays over.

KATE: And you assholes are leaving, too. I can’t trust you here alone.

MIKEY: What?! Game ain’t over yet.

LAWYER: It’s alright, babe. We’re in the ‘bro zone.’ Go Eagles! Mess ‘em up!

The guys eye the douchebag sipping a wine spritzer.

KATE: Fine. Don’t bitch at me when there’s puke in the bean dip.

The lawyer rushes over to greet her before she goes. All sexy-

LAWYER: Hey, babe. Don’t you wanna tell me something?

KATE: Yeah. You’re low on Kettle One.

And bolts out the door.

BROWNIE: Awright, so… which one’s green and which one’s blue?

MIKEY: Ah, Jesus Christ.

FALL RUSH scene: Decorating the house for rush week (these are 40-year-old women, btw)

EXT. FRONT YARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — AFTERNOON

Emily and her friends decorate the house, excited for the opening night of rush. Mia’s the foreman, directing the others, as a popular 90’s song blasts on her phone.

EMILY: (re: song) Omigod. You guys remember this?

BECKY: Freshman year, Sigma Chi.

MIA: Em hooked up with that total a-hole… what was his name again?

BECKY: ‘The Dicker.’

MIA: Yes! I knew it was genital related.

DOTTIE: Asshole’s not a genital. (off Mia’s look) Just saying.

EMILY: That house was kinda rapey, huh?

BECKY: Dude, it was totally rapey. They ply with you Natty Light, then take you downstairs to ‘the room.’

MIA: Yep, that was the move.

DOTTIE: We didn’t have that at our school.

BECKY: That’s ‘cause you didn’t have penises at your school. Had to bus ‘em in like black kids in the 70’s.

MIA: Hey, ya know what? We should throw our own parties.

BECKY: Home court advantage, I like it.

EMILY: Sororities aren’t allowed-

BECKY: Dude, stop. We are NOT playing by their rules anymore. Those days are over. This is our house. Our rules. Our time. We’re Pi Omega, bitches!

MIA: Fuck, yeah!

DOTTIE: (casually shrugs) Uh, yeah. Sure.

EMILY: … We could provide a safe environment, I suppose.

BECKY: Exactly! Any unseemly behavior, you’re out, gone. (beat) Ooh, we can hire the Hell’s Angels!

EMILY: What?

BECKY: I represent one of their guys- real good dude, bullshit charges. They’ll keep things in order.

EMILY: I-I don’t know about…

BECKY: Sure, there’ll be vomit and piss everywhere- boys will be boys- but no walk of shame. Not on our watch.

Emily cracks a grin.

EMILY: I’m really glad we’re doing this.

BECKY/MIA/DOTTIE: Totally!/Absolutely!/Me, too!

They all hug, besties for life, when a Dodge Charger cruises past.. riding shotgun, the cute frat boy- the one who smiled at Emily at the kiosk- snaps a photo of them.

CUTE FRAT BOY: Lookin’ good, ladies!

The girls freeze, stunned. They watch the car speed away…

BECKY: Damn. He was like Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles.

MIA: … He’s gotta be 18, right?

BECKY: Pedophilia works both ways, dude.

DOTTIE: Yeah, he could be like Dougie Howser, Md.

MIA: (thinks) Dougie wouldn’t cruise sorority row in a Dodge Charger. Nah, I’m good.

Scene from FALL RUSH: Naming of the Sorority (These are 40-year-old women, mind you)

EXT. BACKYARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — NIGHT

Emily and her friends quaff margaritas, in high spirits. Emily’s on her laptop, searching for something…

BECKY: You have any idea how dorky we are right now? We are literally Googling the Greek alphabet.

EMILY: Ooh, I like pi.

BECKY: Pi’s good.

MIA: Eh, too many carbs.

DOTTIE You know it’s not food, right? It stands for 3.14-

BECKY: Dude, don’t harsh the buzz.

DOTTIE: I can go 10 deep.

MIA: I can go 12. Any more? Gag reflex.

Becky bumps fists with her. Dottie eyes them strangely.

EMILY: … Okay, definitely not mu.

BECKY: I think we can all agree on that.

EMILY: Beta.

MIA: Eww, like Betamax? Swipe left.

DOTTIE: Kinda appropriate, though. Just saying.

EMILY: Alpha? Alpha’s not bad.

BECKY: Too guyish. (burps) Alpha male, alpha dog…

MIA: I’ll swipe right on pi, but we need something cool to balance it out.

EMILY: Delta.

MIA: Like the airline? Hell, no!

DOTTIE: Well, actually, it means… (off Becky’s glare) Screw you guys.

EMILY: Omega?

MIA: Yes! Boom!

DOTTIE: How is that a boom?

MIA: Uh, Omega-3’s. Duh.

EMILY: I don’t really know what that is.

MIA: No one knows what it is! Who cares, it’s healthy. Done.

EMILY: Hmm, ‘Pi Omega.’

BECKY: That’s not terrible, actually.

DOTTIE: Pecan pie and fish oil.

MIA: Sort of a ying yang kinda thing.

DOTTIE: Did you say ‘ying?’

EMILY: Ooh, I gotta call Linds.

Thrilled and tipsy, Emily dials a number on her phone…

EMILY: Oh- hey! You answered. Guess what? We’re starting a sorority!

LINDSAY V.O.: You’re… what?

EMILY: I texted you I was going back to school.

LINDSAY V.O.: Yeah. Weird but understandable.

EMILY: Well, it’s a long story- I’ll tell you later- but… Becks and the girls, we’re gonna start a sorority. Isn’t that awesome?

LINDSAY V.O.: Not the word that comes to mind.

EMILY: Hey, so, whaddya think would be a cool name? We’re thinking Pi Omega.

LINDSAY V.O.: Hmm… how do you say ‘mid-life crisis’ in Greek? I’d go with that.

And just like, Emily’s exuberance is shattered.

I Found My Soulmate During COVID-19

I had an epiphany Friday night. Well, actually, epiphany is probably not the right word. An epiphany springs out of the blue. This particular insight has been bubbling below the surface for years now. So not an ‘a-ha!’ moment, per se. More like a ‘yep, I knew it!’ kinda thing. And Friday night’s Real Time removed any lingering doubts. Bill Maher is, indeed, my soulmate. If there was a nearby tree to carve ‘Bill + Dave’ into the bark, I surely would risk the outrage of my environmentalist neighbors to accomplish such a feat. But, alas, like my soulmate, I live in Los Angeles (with a far less glamorous, more populated zip code). Oh, and a note to friends and family: no, I’m not gay. I am not ‘coming out of the closet.’ Do people still say that, btw? It seems dated, like the word ‘Chicano.’ Now, I know- traditionally speaking, of course- that my soulmate should be a member of the opposite sex, roughly my age. Not a 64-year old bachelor. And his bachelorhood- and persistent attacks on marriage (and religion, for that matter)- is definitely part of the attraction, much to the dismay of my blue collar parents who will never cash in on their well-deserved benefits of being grandfathers and grandmothers. They would have been really good ones, too. Thankfully for me, I have an older brother who is also childless. So blame him, dear mama.

On the latest Real Time, Bill (as my soulmate, I call him Bill), pontificated on the necessity of a healthier lifestyle- yes, you can be healthy and smoke weed- and not resort to hiding in the aforementioned closet from ubiquitous germs. And, as usual, the man is right. Lethal viruses are, sadly, here to stay, as the prescient song described rock n’ roll in the 1950’s. The best strategy, therefore, is not to try to avoid them, but to build up an immunity system strong enough to keep the bastards at bay. It’s a teaching lesson that’ll not only vanquish this virus, but cure a slew of other ailments that plague us. Hell, fatty foods and sugary drinks alone kill more people yearly than a dozen Hiroshimas. And Bill’s not a ‘Johnny-come-lately’ (okay, I know for a fact no one says that anymore). No, he’s been pushing this discourse for years, blasting politicians who ignore this Gore-style inconvenient truth.

Soulmates, though, aren’t made on a single issue. If two people find Tiger King wildly entertaining (and, c’mon, who doesn’t?), that doesn’t mean they’re meant to mate for life. No, Bill espouses utilitarianism, a philosophy I’ve always been attracted to… sorta my Alyssa Milano of ideologies. Sharing the same birth year, I’ve adored her since her days as tomboy Sam Micelli to the political activist she is now. I even had her poster on my wall, the one with- wait, where was I going with this? Ah, yes. Utilitarianism. The concept’s pretty simple: the common good trumps individual rights. What seems obvious and natural to Bill and I, however, has virulent opposition- mainly on the far right side of the political spectrum. Round up the usual suspects: Fox News. Rush. And, well, anyone who dons a red MAGA hat. Do they make them in any other color, btw? I’d love to see one in pink… For these folks, the rights of each person trumps (even as a verb it’s cringe worthy) any government mandate. Sounds logical, right? Unless it’s abortion, of course. Then these sycophants of The Grand & Exalted Poobah perform a twist that would make Chubby Checker blush. Yep, that’s two references to 1950’s rock-n-roll in this lil’ ditty.

Bill and I (hmm, really liking the way that sounds). Yeah, so Bill and I also believe that the left- er, let’s just say Democrats- are way too soft and too scattered as a political party. Sure, distancing is necessary now, but coalescing behind one candidate- 100%, all in- is de rigueur for winning general elections. So, please, stop with all the pandering to fringe causes (elective surgeries in prison? Nice, Liz), unite the party, and kick this m-f’er and his genetically mutated offspring out of office. You see, Republicans know how to play the game. They always have, at least dating back to Nixon. Despite their issues with the candidate, they stand lockstep behind their guy (and it’s always a guy), even if they have to clench their collective nostrils doing so. They organize, they show up to vote- rain, sleet or snow be damned- and do their God’s honest best to suppress the other party’s vote. And they’re really good at it, too. Bottom line, the GOP knows how to seize power and hold onto the fucker for dear life. The Dems? The circular firing squad grows rounder- like our bellies during quarantine- and incrementally more deadly every election cycle.

Speaking of firing squads and elections, Bill and I both believe the upcoming one will not end well. And that’s putting it mildly. Armed Trumpers (and they’re always armed) are a dangerous bunch, to be sure. Hell, they make Pat Buchanan’s peasants with pitchforks seem downright pastoral. So here’s what’ll happen the first Tuesday in November: Trump will lose the election- both the popular vote (the sequel) and the electoral college. Will he graciously concede office like his predecessors before him? Unless you’ve been in a coma during his reign, you know that’s not gonna happen. The words ‘gracious’ and ‘concede’ were scribbled out of his dictionary as a child. No, he will contest the results. And then contest some more, all the way up to the Supreme Court if necessary, now conveniently aligned with his political beliefs. Rest assured, he will not go gentle in the good night. He’s been working the refs for nearly five years now, claiming voting irregularities and accusing Democrats of encouraging them. Sure, there’s been little to no evidence of any such shenanigans. The only concrete intel swings in the other direction, incriminating Trump and his dealings with Russia. But when have his supporters ever gave a damn about facts? Bill’s list of Trump’s dictatorial behavior is spot-on. The one not mentioned- and the most dangerous, by far- will be his refusal to leave the White House when he loses the election. The year that has brought us an apocalyptic virus that killed more Americans than the Vietnam war and systematically destroyed our economy will undoubtedly conclude with riots in the streets. This, my friends, is the good part of 2020, when we’re reconnecting with old friends and (more or less) coming together as a country. But darker days await, and it will have little to do with COVID-19, other than a rationale for alleged voting fraud. So what is there to do in all this? Well, I know Bill will be loading up on copious amounts of marijuana. That’s certainly a viable option. For the rest of us, I recommend that you take Bluto’s advice from Animal House and start drinking heavily.

p.s. call me, Bill:)