 |
| "You don't speak, you don't sing." |
Kim Richards and her daughter Kimberley get ready for prom...
KIM RICHARDS - Oh, Kimberley. I couldn't be more proud of you than if you had actually accomplished something.
KIMBERLEY - Thanks, Mom. Are you going to be ok here alone tonight?
KIM RICHARDS - Alone? Who's alone? I've got lemonade and chicken salad up the ass! **runs hands through bowl of chicken salad, smears on her face**
NICK, KIMBERLEY'S DATE - **enters, smokin' a doobie** Ding dong! Sup, bitches?
KIM RICHARDS - Oh, joy. It's Kimberlie's 27-year-old date.
NICK - 27 and a half. Hey, Ma, who jizzed all over your face?
KIM RICHARDS - It's chicken salad, asshole!
NICK - Oh, of course. Silly me. Kim, you game for a romp in the Caprice before the dance?
KIM RICHARDS - Yes!
NICK - I meant the other Kim. You know, you could have avoided awkward moments like this if you'd just named your daughter something different than your own name.
KIM RICHARDS - Nah, it's worth it to think someone wanted to sleep with me even for one second.
KIMBERLEY - Well, Mom, we'd better go. The lady at Claire's Boutique said we had to spin Nick's ear piercings around every five minutes to avoid infection.
KIM RICHARDS - Ok, you kids have fun! **they leave, Kim parts the curtains and watches them drive away. She is frozen in this position for two hours, until she begins to crave more chicken salad**
At David Foster Wallace and Yolanda Foster Wallace's big Malibu dinner party...
DAVID FOSTER - You know, women don't know how to be homemakers and hostesses anymore. Not my last wife, or the wife before that, or the wife before that...
RICHARD, THE BUTLER/CATERER - Good evening. Our main course will be fresh lemon plucked from the garden, topped with a lemon coulis from Trader Joe's.
DAVID FOSTER - See? Yolanda showed him how to say that.
KYLE RICHARDS - **examining the butler** Hey! I know that dude! How creepy that he's been more than one place that I've also been!
RICHARD, THE BUTLER/CATERER - I'm standing right here, and I can hear you.
KYLE RICHARDS - Hit the road, Lurch! **everyone laughs and high fives**
CHRIS BOTTI, TRUMPET PLAYER - **to Taylor** Hey, gurl. You and I might have the same frozen face, but we got different stuff going on down below. You feel me?
TAYLOR ARMSTRONG - Absolutely not, you pig! **whispers** Maybe.
CHRIS BOTTI - Fine, but FYI, I'm a trumpet player. You know what that means. **licks lips**
TAYLOR ARMSTRONG - Disgusting! **whispers** Sounds good.
The gang gathers around the piano...
DAVID FOSTER - A mandatory part of our dinner parties is when we sit around and kiss my ass.
YOLANDA FOSTER - Seriously. It's mandatory. All exits are locked.
DAVID FOSTER - Michael Johns, failed talent show contestant, will you sing us a medley of un-copywritten songs so Bravo doesn't have to pay royalties? **sits at the piano**
MICHAEL JOHNS - With pleasure! Ahem. **sings, with eyes closed** Amaaaa-ziiiing graaaace...
DAVID FOSTER - Oh yeah!
MICHAEL JOHNS - When the saints! Go marching in!
DAVID FOSTER - Uh huh, that's right!
MICHAEL JOHNS - Oooooo say can you seeeeeeeeee....
DAVID FOSTER - Take us home, Brother Michael!
TAYLOR ARMSTRONG - Can he literally take us home? I haven't been this bored since I found my husband dead in the garage. **tips back glass of wine, empties it**
YOLANDA FOSTER - Maybe it's time for some water?
TAYLOR ARMSTRONG - Water's gross. So how did you fuckers meet?
DAVID FOSTER - Well, I was staying at Mohamed's house, and I had a choice between that weird mermaid and Yolanda. One has a vagina, and one doesn't, so the decision was easy.
YOLANDA FOSTER - Awww. There's your next love poem to me, right there.
TAYLOR ARMSTRONG - Lame. I'm outta here. **tries to get up, but passes out on the carpet**
KIM RICHARDS - So glad it's not me this season. **pops a Xanax**
THE END.
No comments:
Post a Comment