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A BAR SCENE

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A crowded singles bar in an urban setting. Bobby sits at a bar in a red tube dress, drinking a cosmo and swirling the straw around in his hand.

Another! Now!

Bobby: BARTENDER! Another Screaming Orgasm over here.

Bartender: You're really pouring it on.

Bobby: Fuck it, I'm drunk. And put another one on that old guy's tab over there. He's not even paying attention.

Mr. Blank, at the opposite end of the bar watching tv: Love ya, babe!

Bobby: Kiss my ass, limpdick. See? He didn't even hear it. Limpdick!

Mr. Blank: (Blows kiss, winks.)

Bobby: Fuck. (downs shot)

(A stiff, tweedy middle aged man fiddling with his cell phone approaches the bar and the empty seat next to Bobby.)

Bill Martin, Michigan AD: Good evening, madam. Mind if i sit...

Bobby: Go right fucking ahead. ANOTHER! (taps empty shot glass)

Martin: Bartender, a Latour '64, if you've got it?

Bartender: (Stares, pauses, continues.) We have wine coolers.

Martin: Ooh! That sounds quite refreshing. I'll try one.

(Turns to Bobby)

The weather has been delightful this year. Perfect for some late fall sailing, don't you think?

Bobby: Sailing? Who the hell are you, Captain Ron?

Who the hell sails anymore? They invented motors for a reason, asshole: speed. I'd rather run my jumbles over a cheese grater than get bored to tears watching a bunch of preppie assholes unwinding old laundry in the wind.

Martin: My, you're quite adamant in your views. And such...language! Do you always speak like this to strange men?

Bobby: I do whatever with strange men, as long as they've got the luchini, fuck-o. (Adjusts bra strap.) Especially when they start waltzing up to me and blabbing about yachts and messing around with their cell phones.

Martin: Well, I...I'm sorry, but these things are so hard to figure out. And it gets stuck on this ingenious little game called Breakout. You see, the ball bounces like this...

Bobby: Cut to the chase, Dorky McPreppiepants. Daylight's burning, and I gotta ditch Mr. Phantomstache yesterday. Hey, Limpdick!

Mr. Blank: (Smiles, points, winks.)

Bobby: You really wouldn't believe the gullibility. I would feel for him, if I had a soul. BARTENDER!!!

Bill Martin: Well, you see, I arrived unaccompanied tonight to this establishment. And I endeavor to leave with some company, though I'm stunned at the lack of character in this place. My first choice went...well...somewhat unsuccessfully.

(Across the bar, Les Miles sits on a stool. He is wearing a pair of hot pants, a tied-off bandana bra, and is in the process of getting a tattoo that reads "MIKE." A man in a tiger costume glowers at him with dead, angry mascot eyes.)

Miles: Tell your boy Carr to kiss my fucking ass, Martin! Hold this tiger! (Extends middle finger.)

Bobby: I like the broad's style.

Martin: Yes, she gave me this prominent ocular indigo halo you can see here with heel of her hand in a tussle we had over some media relations. Anyway, I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of perhaps, if you're willing and interested, of course, of giving me your phone...

(A large man in a cowboy hat roars into the bar. He begins throwing cash in every direction from a large sack he has slung around his back. He smells of wealth and bacon. Bar patrons scatter on the floor for dollars.)

Arkansas: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! SOOOOOOOOOOOIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AHHHHHMMM LOOOKIN FOR SOME PRIME SOW AND CAIN'T BEEE DENAAAAAAAAHHHD!!!!

Bobby: That is the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Gimme.

Arkansas: Let's boogie, baby! Off with them drawers! IT'S RUTTIN' TAAAAAAHHHME!!!

Martin: Excuse me, but I--

(Arkansas and Bobby begin copulating at the bar without shame, inches from Martin.)

Blank: Love ya babe!

Bobby: I've never been so satisfied. Ever. I'll be yours forever. You're huge.

Arkansas: WHOOOOOO WEEEEEEEE!!!! YOU'RE GONNA BE MY REGULAR SATURDAY NIGHT THING, BABAAAAAY!

Mr. Blank: Baby!!! How could you, honeybun?

Bobby: He's a real man, not like you! Just watch him! He grows out his mustache ALL THE WAY!!!

Martin: This is just all...so...vulgar. Don't any of you have any class anymore? Any of you? Do you know how hard this is for me, to try and do this with some sort of decorum, to find some esteem without wallowing in this whore-trough you call a bar? You should all be...be...

Bobby: (in between simulated groans) Ashamed?

Martin: YES! Some perspective, at last! Ashamed is precisely the word for it all! Ashamed!

Bobby: Sounds a lot like that guy Notre Dame. He left the bar years ago.

Arkansas: YEAAAAHHHH!!! I'M ON MAH TOES FOR THE FINISH, WOMAN!