SONIA ALLEN. Hey what the hell did you do to breakfast this morning?

JGA. Shh!

SA. You shh.

JGA. Honey, I’m pretty sure someone’s listening.

SA. To what?

JGA. To this. To my phone.

SA. What, like … ninjas?

JGA. Yeah, I think the phone’s tapped.

SA. Who would tap your phone.

JGA. Oh I don’t know, maybe the government? Maybe they want to steal my ideas? C’mon, honey, grow up. This is pretty basic.

SA. Which ideas are those, again?

JGA. My amazing ideas? The plant urinal? The manly lotion dispenser that looks like a grenade? The koala buddy?

SA. Well then I just feel sorry for the poor bastard who has to listen to you all day long.

JGA. Not me. That’s like the best government job you can get.

SA. I bet he’s begging for a transfer. You’re pretty one-note.

JGA. What! I’ve got notes all over the place. I’m a goddamn Yes song.

SA. He’s probably rolling his eyes right now.

JGA. He’s probably chuckling fondly!

SA. Just sighing and petting his partner, who’s a dog.

JGA. See? Best job in the world. Anyway, I’m flushing this phone down the toilet.

SA. You do that.

JGA. You’ll have to figure out some other way to yell at me about the breakfast thing.

SA. Oh I get it. This is all your little way of g—

JGA. Hanging up forever.

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Bruuuuuuuuce.

CCCS. Yes hello how many I provide ex—

JGA. Glory days, they’ll pass you by.

CCCS. Yes sir.

JGA. Especially when you’re in a cubicle wearing a little headset.

CCCS. No kidding.

JGA. Bruce, I have a really ridiculous charge here on my bill that I need you to make go away. I know you have this power.

CCCS. OK, can I get your card number?

JGA. Ha ha yeah right.

CCCS. Sir, I just need to pull up your—

JGA. You think I’m falling for that old chestnut? That’s probably how I got into this mess in the first place. Some hooligan in droopy drawers got me all confused with his good looks and stole my card and ran up this huge phone sex bill.

CCCS. Ah, here we go.

JGA. Bruce, I’m looking at $365.17 for something called “TeleVag Xplicixx Entertaiment LLC” and yes they spelled “entertainment” wrong.

CCCS. And you have no reco—

JGA. There’s an 800 number here next to it and I called it just to confirm my worst fears.

CCCS. Were they confirmed?

JGA. Totes. I was on there for like 45 minutes, unable to believe what I was hearing. Back in my day the ladies didn’t even know what a polypropylene drum pump was, let alone have all kinds of filthy ideas for how to use one. Anyway I’ll be calling you next month about that charge.

CCCS. So you think somebody maybe got access to your card number?

JGA. I know I didn’t call this terrible hotline! If any middle-aged woman’s going to pretend to be a loose young hottie and talk to me about how it’s too hot in her lesbian dorm room, it’s going to be my beloved wife, thank you very much. I took a vow.

CCCS. She’s right there with you, isn’t she.

JGA. Uh, affirmativo.

CCCS. Well, sir, I should be able to issue you a credit for the $300 if you’ll—

JGA. Dude, it’s … what. It’s $365.17.

CCCS. Yes but there is a one-time $65.17 processing fee.

JGA. That’s a pretty specific amount.

CCCS. It ensures that no one at Chase Credit Card Services will contact you or any members of your family about this ridiculous charge.

JGA. You blackmailing hooligan!

CCCS. Sir, you get your phone sex at a greatly discounted rate, I get sixty bucks to spend on drugs so I can forget about my terrible job for a few hours, and your wife will be none the wiser.

JGA. Hm. OK. I find your customer service to be very compelling.

CCCS. Though I’m pretty sure she’s not buying any of this.

JGA. Well, kid, sometimes in this life you have to go through the motions in order to avoid trouble.

CCCS. Gee really I did not know that. Now if I could just get your credit card number—

JGA. Dream on, a-hole! Fuck Patti Scialfa!

—click—

Let me guess. You were like: Goodness gracious who is this? Who is calling me on the telephone? Oh it must be the girl from the deli who seemed pretty impressed with my order today. Her eyes—blazing green like a majestic dragon-monster!—giving you that too-long are you for real kind of look? And you laid out the goods on a silver platter, like: Oh yeah, a hundred percent. And she gave you that long, deep sigh and then made your pastrami sub with extra mayo and extra sexy, as requested.

And then somehow she figured out your phone number? That’s what the internet is for. And she calls and her voicemail goes: I got a whole big Sam’s Club thing of mayo at my condo, which I just vacuumed and which has a surround-sound dealie if you want to watch Shawshank or something after we do El Deedo.

Dream on, jerk! Anyway, I just wanted to call to remind you about the sweet idea I had at the deli because remember how you forgot the last one? You wrote down something like koala buddy and were picking out what shape jacuzzi you were going to buy with all the cash moneys? And then completely forgot the genius idea?

Why am I such an idiot. It’s like you’re hanging out with God, nothing big, He’s got a party to go to later but is cool just relaxing with you beforehand, sort of getting His pre-party buzz on with the Snapple cocktails you just invented, and He’s feeling sort of sorry for you because He knows you’re looking down the barrel of a Super Nintendo night, so He’s all: Gotta run, Jigga, but real quick let me just give you my own personal secret recipe for potato chips that taste exactly like when you get out of work early because the power goes out or something and it’s a perfect spring day outside and you get in the car and the radio happens to be playing “When Doves Cry”? And then you completely forget to write any of it down?

What’s it going to take.

OK whatever, move on, don’t get bogged down by negativity, look to the future, and the future is this: Some kind of website or internet experience where you go there and type in some lady you know, OK? And then it would email you a really detailed description of what she looks like naked. Written in a fancy style? I think we can use JavaScript to make it really accurate. And we could do the gents, too, of course, no reason to shut out a potential customer. I bet you’d love to write those dude descriptions!

I think this is a pretty obvious money factory. Just needs a little TLC and imagineering. Do me a favor for once and add it to the spreadsheet, kay? We’ll sort it out together. You and me, buddy, till the end. Don’t go changing, Future Josh. I hope that mustache you’re working on is a little further along.

—click—

SONIA ALLEN. Guess what week it is!

JGA. Eric Roberts Week on TNT, doy. Everybody knows that.

SA. I said guess what week this is.

JGA. [sighs] Birthday Week.

SA. Oh my goodness! Then where are you taking your favorite wife out for din-din?

JGA. Well, seeing as this is a super-special occasion that only happens once a year, not including Half Birthday Week, I’m guessing we’ll be crossing all the old standbys off the list.

SA. Yeah, no Ham Haus.

JGA. No Wet Burrito, no MSG-Whiz!!, no Burgr 2.0 Beta.

SA. No Chicken Fingered. Maybe someplace where the vomit on the floor doesn’t look exactly like the food? Someplace with a tablecloth. Someplace where I don’t recognize one single thing on the menu.

JGA. Keep it classy, check.

SA. I wanna be all: Whaaa?

JGA. Yeah like: Blackened vajayjay stuffed with double-seared wampa beans?!

SA. Always with the vajayjay. What’s the German word for where you think you’re all hip but actually you’re about thirty months late, on average.

JGA. Letting that slide because it’s Birthday Week and you had sex with me in high school. Mariachi band, yes or no.

SA. Of course not, and before you even say it—

JGA. [quickly] Depressed waitresses singing “Happy Birthd—

SA. No singing, no clapping, no funny hat. Here’s how you know the restaurant is good: Tell them it’s my birthday and you’d like them to come over to the table and sing at me and make me feel embarrassed for the whole world. If they say something like, “Would m’sieur prefer the divorce papers before or after dessert?” then make a reservation.

JGA. How about that place downtown where they don’t even have a menu?

SA. Ooh. Hello. Is it getting arousing in here?

JGA. Yeah you just sit down and the chef is all: Strap in, motherfucker!

SA. You’re telling me I’m at the whim of his delicate but masculine hands.

JGA. I am absolutely not telling you that.

SA. You’re saying he’s going to use my tongue as a canvas for his spicy art?

JGA. OK now you’re just being gross.

SA. I’m calling them now. What’s it called?

JGA. La Fessée. I mean: I forget. I don’t remember. I think they got shut down for serving bad vajayjay.

SA. I’m booking a table for two but you’re not required to go. I know it’s Eric Roberts Week.

JGA. Oh I’m going. If you’re getting your tongue-canvas painted then I’m going to be there to film it.

SA. Aw, so jealous! Sometimes I love you, sweetheart.

JGA. Taking you out to dinner means I don’t have to get you a present, right?

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Who is this.

MA. Father, I’m at the Blockbuster.

JGA. Blockbuster?

MA. Yeah I need some movie advice.

JGA. OK well step one is that you leave Blockbuster immediately. They don’t even have NC-17 movies there!

MA. I don’t know what that means.

JGA. You don’t need to worry about what it means. But it means bush.

MA. Just tell me what to rent. I need a movie boys like.

JGA. That’s easy, just get that one where the car runs into the monkey and they both just fucking explode—wait, why do boys have to like it?

MA. Just. You know. I dunno.

JGA. There is not one single scenario I can think of where you would need to rent a movie that boys like. Your whole life you’ve been opposed to movies boys like. You’ve been very clear on this issue. I’m all: Loosen up and watch The Thing with me and you’re like: No, we’re watching I Gently Pet the Unicorn for the billionth time because I feel we’re still missing some subtext.

MA. Dad, just—what’s that movie you and Mom like to watch after you have a fight? Say Whatever?

JGA. It’s not Say Whatever and you don’t need that movie in your life yet. Who is this boy you won’t be watching any movies with, ever?

MA. Just this fellow who works here.

JGA. At Blockbuster? Nice work, sweetheart. Way to rise above your station.

MA. He’s wearing the Blockbuster shirt but you can tell he doesn’t really mean it.

JGA. Does he have a beard?

MA. Um, what?

JGA. Does. He have. A beard.

MA. Not like a beard beard.

JGA. Oh my god. Get out of there, Marisol. You are grounded. You are grounded until menopause.

MA. Fine. You want me to rent Purple Rain for you?

JGA. Uh, yeah. It is Thursday night, last I checked.

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Why you gotta hate right out the gate?

FMA. I mean I am just swamped.

JGA. Quick question and then you can get back to peeping on your neighbor.

FMA. I’m not peeping. I just don’t trust the guy she’s with. He looks like one of those guys who beats his wife on Super Bowl Sunday and doesn’t even watch the game, you know? He just does it because he’s an enthusiast.

JGA. Anyway the reason I’m calling.

FMA. God, he is so wrong for her. A thug like that doesn’t appreciate a woman who subscribes to Entertainment Weekly and has tiny freckles on her nose.

JGA. Anyway so you know how I’m working on my memoirs?

FMA. No.

JGA. Mitch. The True Chronicles of a Man of Vision, Part Two: My Wicked Education. I’ve mentioned this five times.

FMA. I’m sure I would remember something as important-sounding as this.

JGA. There is a key episode of my childhood that I’m having some trouble with, Mitchell, and I think you were there, and I need your help filling in the blanks.

FMA. It’s been, uh, professionally recommended to me that I not delve too deep into my childhood.

JGA. I know, me too, but I think this could be a real cash cow if we do it up right.

FMA. Well then lay it down, clown.

JGA. So it’s the Halloween where I dressed up as Prince.

FMA. Oh my god.

JGA. You remember this?

FMA. Josh, you could probably find the whole story on microfiche at the library. You really don’t—

JGA. I mean I remember most of it, like how I had the full-on look, how it was really complete, and I mean most kids were just wearing a plastic poncho with a picture of whoever they were supposed to be, like E.T. or The E Street Band or whatever—

FMA. You had the high heels, the frilly shirt with the fake chest hair glued on underneath, the black spandex bikini bottom with the … what did you stuff it with?

JGA. A frozen hot dog.

FMA. Right. And the wig and makeup, and the little unicorn guitar made out of papier mâché.

JGA. Yeah exactly. And I had the moves, I had the attitude, and the girls basically went to Hornytown, USA. I’m just having trouble remembering which girls and just how much action I got that night.

FMA. OK, let me help you out. The first house we went to—

JGA. What were you dressed up as? Papa Smurf?

FMA. Yes, and we go up to the first house and it’s Matt Calcagni’s dad and he takes you by your little necklace and starts punching the mascara off your head. And he says something like: The only candy a homo gets is the devil’s candy.

JGA. Huh.

FMA. And then you did what is by far the best Prince imitation I’ve ever heard. This long, high-pitched shriek.

JGA. And that’s when the girls rushed in and started kissing me?

FMA. I’m pretty sure that’s when I took off.

JGA. I specifically remember hot girl action. Like that was the night I became a man?

FMA. You were, what? Ten? You didn’t even know what a girl was.

JGA. Listen to me very carefully: I have always known what a girl is.

FMA. You seriously don’t remember going to the hospital? You got stitches, I think.

JGA. Hang on. Oh yeah. All coming back to me.

FMA. I remember it because that was the year we got exactly zero candy and I hated your fat guts.

JGA. No, see, that was when I first got my temperature taken the, the old-fashioned way.

FMA. At the hospital?

JGA. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking of.

FMA. That was the night you became a man.

JGA. This memoir is going to rule.

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Michelle, I need to make an appointment. For reals.

PH. Great! Just a haircut, or..?

JGA. I need the deluxe treatment, Michelle. I’m like Chewbacca driving a convertible over here.

PH. So like shampoo, color?

JGA. Chewbacca’s from the seventies, so maybe you don’t know who I mean but whatever, you guys have a secret menu, right? One for the insiders? I used to know all the lingo. There was “The Flying Dutchman,” I think? And “Animal Style”?

PH. Um, I’m pretty new here, I dunno.

JGA. Well let me just describe the one I’m thinking of, Michelle. It’s where I come in there and everyone’s really friendly and sort of flirty and they don’t make fun of my hair or the dandruff situation. OK? Also I have a severe cowlick and am going gray. And there may be a slight … odor. So first off, no judgment.

PH. Of course not! That’s actually one of our policies.

JGA. OK great, no charge for that. Then I’d like to be attended to by … who’s the girl with the Australian accent?

PH. Australian … oh yeah, you mean, um … Australian?

JGA. Yeah she pronounces all the words funny?

PH. There’s Natasha. She’s from New York?

JGA. That’s probably it. So yeah Natasha begins by not judging me, and then we have a long, luxurious time with her washing my hair. The water is just a little too hot and the shampooing goes on a little too long. Michelle, you know how sometimes in this life you’ll see a handsome man, say at the danceteria or like a concert with a rap singer?

PH. Totes.

JGA. And your eyes happen to meet for a second and usually you’d just look away but this time … this time, Michelle, you keep gazing at each other for another second, two seconds, three, four. It’s brazen, Michelle. It is rid-ick. And then it’s over, he’s gone, but you feel a little feverish and shaky? A little nervous?

PH. Sure.

JGA. Well that’s how I want this shampoo to go.

PH. I’m pretty sure there’ll be an extra charge for that.

JGA. Not a problem. What’s another hundo when you’re as deep in debt as me, ha ha!

PH. So is Tuesday good?

JGA. Whoa whoa whoa. We need to discuss the small talk. The subject matter isn’t as important as the tone, right? Quiet, intimate. She should whisper certain words in my ear so no one else there can hear. Maybe small bursts of giggling now and then, as if I’d said something outrageous?

PH. Jotting this down. Small bursts of … giggling. Got it.

JGA. Then she shaves my neck-hair with a straight razor, which she wields with … you still writing?

PH. Yep.

JGA. Write that she wields the razor with the bold confidence of a dominatrix, but also with the tee-hee-I’m-naughty vibe of a schoolgirl swigging an airplane bottle of vodka on her way to EPCOT for the first time.

PH. I feel like those maybe kind of contradict each other?

JGA. Good point. I guess just write them both down and let her pick one.

PH. OK. And what about the shoulder massage at the end?

JGA. On the shoulders? Eh, if it’s free, OK. But if Natasha could be sure to give me her card afterward—like: You only work with me, Mister Allen, don’t let me see you with any of these other girls—that would be ideal.

PH. I’m trying to think of why that might be a problem and not coming up with anything.

JGA. Awesome, Michelle. I look forward to meeting you!

PH. Oh I’m not in that day. Next time, though!

JGA. Michelle, we have not yet scheduled a time.

PH. See you then!

—click—

SONIA ALLEN. Lucky for us my sister died in the womb.

JGA. She did?

SA. No.

JGA. Fee-yew!

SA. But what if she did, honey.

JGA. I’d probably be all: Well, sweetheart, as you know, a prayer down here turns into a suggestive back rub in Heaven, and that’s all I was doing.

SA. You wouldn’t maybe want to start just answering the phone like someone with a decent upbringing?

JGA. I like to start a—you’ll learn this about me—I like to start a conversation with a real bold example of what I’m all about. Where I stand on the issues, the works. Let the folks know what they’re about to wrangle with.

SA. Let’s say we’ve been married coming up on fifteen years.

JGA. Hey, you didn’t say “fifteen fucking years” this time!

SA. Yes and maybe after fifteen years when I call you I don’t need to know where you stand on the issues or what you’re all about. Because that’s all been made really really clear.

JGA. Well maybe you were at your job all day, having meetings with those so-called men you work with, those guys with the sandals? Talking about TV shows? So maybe when you call me you need a little refresher course in what exactly Josh Allen brings to the table.

SA. Here’s a refresher course: My sister died of leukemia when she was seven.

JGA. Oh yeah.

—click—

PENNINGTON GREEN. This is your aunt. I am going to paint you a word-picture.

JGA. Oh my god.

PG. There is a big rusty nail on the floor and it has been covered with acid. The kind of acid people use when they want to pour acid on a dead body they killed to get rid of the evidence.

JGA. Not that acid!

PG. Yes and the rusty nail is fresh out of the fire so it is very hot.

JGA. This word-picture is extremely vivid. Let me transfer you to our poetry division here at Old People Weekly.

PG. Joshua, I am trying to communicate with you. Next what happens is I walk across the room to change the channel on the television and I step right on this rusty hot acid nail.

JGA. I thought Mitch glued your remote control to the sofa so it would stop wandering off?

PG. Boy, I am telling you what my goddamn corns feel like!

JGA. Oh!

PG. I’m hobbling around like Sanford and Son!

JGA. I want to help, Aunt Pen. This whole situation is just so infuriating to me.

PG. Well, I’m taking the pills your mother hides from me. But until they are working I can’t do the vacuuming and I can’t make the hot Dr Pepper I need in the evenings.

JGA. Hoo boy this is worse than I thought.

PG. What is it you are doing right now? Answer me now so there’s no time for one of your horrible made-up excuses!

JGA. A guy I don’t know just came over and gave me an ancient map. He said he’d be back to pick it up in an hour but if he doesn’t come back then I have to guard this map with my life.

PG. What is the map of.

JGA. It is ancient, in a language I do not know. There is a river and a mountain and a skull.

PG. Read me the words right now with no hesitation.

JGA. Mungo chaka boba fett.

PG. That sounds like the Devil’s tongue.

JGA. Tell me about it.

PG. I guess you have your hands full. I suppose you could send your daughter over.

JGA. You know she’s the worst vacuumer in the world.

PG. Of course I know that.

JGA. She somehow gets the floor dirtier than when she started.

PG. I know! But what choice do I have?

JGA. None choice.

PG. Send her over. What will you do with that map?

JGA. I have ten more minutes till the guy’s supposed to come back. After that … I don’t know. I just don’t know. It fills me with a terrible dread. I feel this is a map not of the physical realm, but of my very soul.

PG. You should put it up on the eBay.

JGA. I … I just might, Aunt Pen. Even now my hands are trembling at the force of your words.

PG. Visiting with you always makes me tired and confused.

JGA. I hear that!

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. (sniffs) Mama?

EA. Mitchie? Isn’t it a little early for your weekly cry?

JGA. Ma, this is Jiggies.

EA. Jiggies, are you OK? Is somebody in the hospital with rickets?

JGA. One of these days you’re going to be right about that and then you’ll feel bad.

EA. Or then maybe I’ll finally get some respect for my intuition around this dump!

JGA. Well you get zero respect today because I’m calling about Mister Swiffer, Mom. Mister Swiffer.

EA. Remember that time the doorbell rang and I said, I said: “I bet you ten dollars it’s the police here to take your father off to jail for embezzlement.” And it was!

JGA. Did you have that premonition before or after Dad gave you a suitcase to hide and then ran through the screen door and took some kid’s bike and rode off and we never saw him again.

EA. Who needs video phone doodads when I can hear that horrible mean face of yours right in your voice.

JGA. What about the heartbreak, mother. Can you hear that? Are you listening, mother?

EA. Aw, you haven’t been heartbroken since that program you liked went off the air. The one with the two homos dressing up as ladies to get a gay condo? Good luck with that scheme, girls!

JGA. I’m heartbroken about Mister Swiffer and I thought I could maybe share these feelings with my one remaining mother.

EA. It’s just that—well, Jiggies, I thought we all agreed that your imaginary friend went off to college without you. Settled down with a nice, modest virgin? And every once in a while he’d look at old yearbook pictures of you two and smile sadly?

JGA. Mister Swiffer was my dog, mother.

EA. I don’t remember you having an imaginary dog.

JGA. My real dog, Ma! He was real!

EA. Son, since when do you have a dog? Are you thinking of Marisol? She could use a wax between her eyebrows but she’s still a human being who deserves your respect.

JGA. Mister Swiffer was just a crazy little furry-face! He was by far the only thing in the house excited when I came home. One time he ate a whole bag of chips and barfed it up in like fifty different spots—and I didn’t even get mad! Oh I just loved that little captain wags-a-lot. (choked sob)

EA. Well, did he pass away of rickets?

JGA. No, the neighbors saw him in the window and took him away.

EA. They can’t do that!

JGA. I told him a million times: “Mister Swiffer, you stay out of sight!” (chuckles fondly)

EA. Did you call the authorities?

JGA. Um no.

EA. Well I’m calling them right now! (phone beeps)

JGA. Mother, you can’t call someone else while you’re still talking to me.

EA. Hello? Nine-eleven? Did you hear about the dog thiefing going on in our community?

JGA. (aside) The neighbors called him “Steve.” Who names a dog Steve. He was much happier with me, you could tell. He shook the shit out of my hand, I’ll tell you that much.

EA. Hello? I request to report an official burglary and I demand your respect and attention.

JGA. (aside) They left him running around in the yard! No leash or anything. What was I supposed to do, just not pick him up and take him home? Just not kiss his little wet black nose? Just not feed him a whole bag of chips?

EA. I’m hearing gibberish, officer. This is why people in this country can do all the crimes they want and not face repercussions.

JGA. (sighs) Sorry, Mrs. Allen. We’ll go cattle-prod those criminals right away and then give them the chair with no trial or anything.

EA. OK, but what about those men in the street who have names for my cleavage and call it those names when I go out to hose down the driveway?

JGA. One crime at a time, ma’am. Good day.

—click—

MARISOL ALLEN. Nice, Daddy.

JGA. Sorry, I thought you were your mother.

MA. You know, your phone tells you who’s calling, if you just—

JGA. I can barely hear you, sweetheart. Are you under a bridge? Oh my god you’re under a bridge doing drugs with some guy I work with. I don’t know if I should be mad or proud or what.

MA. Daddy.

JGA. Just tell me it’s not Richie Malvo. That dude is filthy. He has a mustache. I think he plays golf? Say it’s not him. Just lie to me, baby.

MA. Dad. I’m in class.

JGA. You’re at school?

MA. Yeah. Remember, you dropped me off a couple hours ago?

JGA. What, this morning? Then shouldn’t I be at work?

MA. You’re not?

JGA. I just woke up in the backseat of some car. Honey, I think I was maybe kidnapped?

MA. Do you see a big pile of dirty laundry and empty bottles of vanilla extract on the floor?

JGA. Why, yes! Yes, I do!

MA. That’s your car. I need you to get up and go into your office and get on the internet and help me out.

JGA. I can hack into something for you, no problem.

MA. I’m taking this history test and I have no idea, Daddy. I have zero idea.

JGA. You’re taking a test right now?

MA. Shh! Yeah.

JGA. Miss Mills is gonna boot your ass right into detention!

MA. This is Mrs. Beschizza. And she’s not even here right now. She said she had to go smoke and cry.

JGA. Mrs. What? Who’s the one with the big … you know? The supple..? I’m cupping my hands over my boobs here.

MA. (sighs) Miss Mills.

JGA. Yeah, why can’t you get in trouble in her class? I could have a really nice, long parent-teacher conference with her about your learning disabilities and, you know, your attitude problems and whatnot. Maybe some salsa dancing. Just see where the night takes us.

MA. You help me with this test and I promise I’ll be a total b-hole in Miss Mills’ class for the next month.

JGA. Yes! OK. Ask away. We don’t need the internet. You don’t know this—nobody knows this—but your father is basically a history genius. Napoleon. The cotton gin. OK? 900 BC. King, uh … Martin. Martin Luther. King. JFK, blown away. Whatever you need.

MA. OK, Mr. Genius, listen. Under the Articles of Confederation, who had final authority on all matters?

JGA. What the fuck are you talking about right now.

MA. Forget it.

JGA. Hang on, hold it! The Articles of the what now?

MA. Confederation.

JGA. Confederation, right, yeah. Cinchy. That’s Napoleon. Napoleon X, I, V.

MA. Father. This is American History.

JGA. Sweetheart, the story of America is the story of the whole world.

MA. I know you don’t want me to go to college because you don’t want to pay for it, but sabotaging my educa—

JGA. OK, sheesh, hold the phone, there’s a guy walking by outside here, let me roll down the— (yelling) Hey, buddy! Yeah! You know who wrote the Articles of Confederacy?

MA. Daddy, it’s who had the final—never mind.

JGA. Actually I am serious! Fine, keep on walking, fucko! Sleep easy tonight knowing you ruined a cute girl’s one and only chance at college!

MA. Dad.

JGA. Sorry, honey, it’s an uncaring world your mother brought you into.

MA. It’s OK. I should probably hit the road anyway.

JGA. Sure thing, angel. And even if you do fail that dumb test, I think you still learned a valuable lesson today.

MA. Yeah. I’m going to call Mom now.

JGA. Good girl. (kissy noise) Later, skater.

—click—

“FABULOUS” MITCHELL ALLEN. Mom?

JGA. (mean old lady voice) You have been such a disappointment to me, Mitchell. Especially when it comes to stocking stuffers and making your poor old mother find things at the Walgreens for everybody, as if I could even afford little deodorants and fancy nuts for the whole family!

FMA. Mother, we agreed we weren’t doing stockings this year! But you went ahea—

JGA. (cackling hag voice) I’m just glad you’re not my only son. Thank you Our Lord Jesus Christ for blessing me with at least one child who has healthy sperm and can drive stick!

FMA. (pause) This is Josh, isn’t it.

JGA. Ha ha!

FMA. That sounded just like her.

JGA. I know, right?

FMA. But I mean c’mon dude, we all said no stocking stuffers. We voted on it. It’s all goddamn bullshit—her exact words!

JGA. No one’s fighting you on this, Fab. Although that mini-deodorant has gotten way more use than the talking car-lady you got me.

FMA. That GPS cost three-hundred and fifty large. And you never use it because you just call me whenever you get lost, which is whenever you get in the car and make any sort of left or right turn or get on a freeway or come to an intersection.

JGA. Funny you should bring that up.

FMA. Oh come on. You just called like an hour ago.

JGA. Mitch, I did exactly what you said and totally got out of that cul-de-sac, but then you left me hanging! I had to improvise and everything went to fucking shit!

FMA. OK, calm down.

JGA. I tried talking to the car-lady and she was basically rude and bossy about the whole thing so I just said, you know, I said: Why don’t you make a U-turn when safe to do so—onto my johnson.

FMA. Good one. Shut that bitch down. So where are you now.

JGA. I have no idea! All the signs are in Spanish!

FMA. You’re at Acapulco’s, aren’t you.

JGA. These six margs for the price of five won’t drink themselves. Or will they? Come on down here, let’s get to the bottom of this mystery.

FMA. No. I have to vacuum and then do something about the shower.

JGA. Whoa, hold everything! Are you saying there’s a young lady of the female persuasion coming over tonight?

FMA. It’s a possibility. Word is she likes guys who lease their own car.

JGA. And she might be in a position to inspect the carpeting or the shower?

FMA. I try to create my own luck.

JGA. God bless ya. Kick things off at Acapulco’s, then. Five—uh, two drinks are on me, and she can meet your big brother.

FMA. Yeah, about that…

JGA. She’ll get all flabbergasted. She’ll think to herself: I’ve met the perfect man, but he is so out of my league. Yes, me, the waitress-in-training at the cafeteria for old people with gross diseases. Well, I may as well settle for someone in his gene pool. I better take whatever I can get before this old biological clock dries up and shuts down for good—

FMA. She’s not menopausal.

JGA. Who knows what your type is these days.

FMA. I’m going to stick to my rule of not introducing girlfriends to you until they’re already kind of sick of me and looking for an excuse.

JGA. OK whatever. Good luck with all that. Way to quash the brodacious vibe over here.

FMA. Don’t be like that. I’ll make it up to you. Listen: I know a guy who can get us these big bags of irregular candy, like factory rejects? Five bucks for enough mutated Twizzlers to make you wonder what kind of God could create such a thing.

JGA. (pause) Last-minute save, Fab. Love it. I’ll call you in an hour so you can tell me how to get home.

FMA. Kay. And I’ll figure out once and for all how to turn this phone off.

JGA. (crabby septuagenarian voice) You’re out of the will, sonny! Say goodbye to my collection of strangers’ baby teeth I got on eBay!

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. Doc, it’s Josh.

KM. (silence)

JGA. Josh Allen, doc.

KM. I know who it is. How’d you get this number.

JGA. Your receptionist cut a deal with me. Said she’d give me your emergency number if I never called her or … hang on, I’ve got the contract here. Let’s see. “Never contact her or any of her family members again, nor come within a 100-foot radius of her apartment building or the place she does sexy yoga, nor send her greeting cards of a … a lasciv … lascivi…”

KM. Lascivious.

JGA.“Nor posters featuring his actual-size nude body,” blah blah, mostly just boilerplate.

KM. This must be a considerable emergency then, Mr. Allen.

JGA. I just need my test results, Dr. Karl. The wife is putting an embargo on all, you know, in-and-out activities until we get that paperwork.

KM. I do have the results, but I felt they could wait until our scheduled appointment next week, and not at, what, one-thirty in the morning? During a very spirited night out with my energetic intern here?

JGA. Doc, I am very sorry to interrupt whatever homo-activity you’ve got going on—believe me. We can make this super-quick.

KM. Fine. Do you have any facial tissue handy? And perhaps some whiskey or Midori?

JGA. I’ve got all three right here in the bathroom, duh.

KM. Well, there’s news. I won’t say if it’s good or bad. I will say there is good or bad news, and you can decide for yourself which it is.

JGA. Give it to me straight. Right in my face.

KM. You got syphilis, son. A lot of it.

JGA. What!

KM. What we in the profession call a sick amount.

JGA. But I thought only chimney sweeps got syphilis!

KM. Wake up, you sad bitch!

JGA. OK. OK. Maintain. I’ve had worse. What can I expect?

KM. Nightmarishly swollen glands. Horrific rashes. Mucus-spewing lesions like something out of Lovecraft. Blindness. Going batshit crazy.

JGA. Great, that’s just what I need in my life right now. Wonderful.

KM. There may be a cure. But the side effects could be even more terrible than the disease itself.

JGA. I’m listening.

KM. Did you ever watch … The Bionic Woman?

JGA. Aw yeah!

KM. Can you be in my office first thing tomorrow morning? We need to fit you for a robo-phallus. It’s an outpatient procedure, no big whoop.

JGA. Oh my goodness! I think I just died and went to a heaven where nonstop boning is smiled upon!

KM. Uh oh, wait a sec, I was looking at the chart upside-down. Turns out you just have crabs. An encore performance, it seems.

JGA. Shucks. Doc, you cold.

KM. You still have the shampoo from last month?

JGA. I think it’s in my desk at work, yeah.

KM. Then I’ll just go ahead and hang up and we can speak again during your next outbreak.

JGA. Doc, if you weren’t the cheapest guy who took my insurance, I’d probably take my penis elsewhere.

KM. Fortunately, it seems that Fate has brought me and your penis together forever. Good night, old friend.

JGA. Night-night. Take it easy on the intern.

KM. I’ll do no such thing.

—click—

JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. The Mile High Cit-ay, State of Sexual Healin’.

411. How may I help you?

JGA. What up tonight, foxy mama.

411. How may I direct your call.

JGA. Name’s Josh. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I call a lot. Some of the girls there call me “sir.”

411. Uh huh.

JGA. Just trying to find where the parties are at tonight. It’s like a wasteland out there, you feel me.

411. (silence)

JGA. The wife’s at a “PTA meeting,” like she’s fooling anyone with that. And Junior is “studying at a friend’s,” ha ha—can you call girls “junior”? Whatever, point being the night is mine and I want to really just get out there and sink my teeth into this city like a dracula and suck its blood right out.

411. (silence)

JGA. When I say “blood” here I mean like, you know, a party in someone’s backyard? Where there are maybe torches? And someone gets kicked in the nuts? Or whatever I’m not picky, just something with a slip ‘n’ slide and beer I’ve never heard of.

411. I have a listing for AAAA Party Supply, Inc. Just a moment.

JGA. Whoa ho ho no, madam, see, I’m the party supply. Here. In this scenario. I just need to know where the party is so I can supply it.

411. What are you, like fifty?

JGA. Fifty? Fifty years old? Uh, ha ha, um no, more like fifty jigawatts of party power right here in my party pants.

411. All right. I got something for you. But not if you’re the creepy old guy who’s going to make everyone uncomfortable.

JGA. Missy, you are way off. The thing to know about me is that I bring the comfort on a comfortable silver platter. Children of all ages snuggle right up to me.

411. We don’t need anyone showing up in a brand-new Good Charlotte t-shirt.

JGA. I don’t even know what that means.

411. OK, go to the 7-Eleven on Colfax and Ogden. You know the one I mean.

JGA. They have the Slurpees.

411. Right. Buy all the chips you can, OK? Ten or twenty bags. Family size. Take them up to the counter and say: “These are for the party.”

JGA. “These are for the party.”

411. They’ll probably act confused, but just buy the chips and hand them over. OK? That’s critical. They must accept the chips.

JGA. Grabbing a pen, hang on.

411. Once they accept the chips, say thank you and go out to your car and wait.

JGA. See the thing is, the wife’s got the car tonight. I was planning to roll large on el public transporto, amiga.

411. Just go out to the parking lot and wait. Someone will come by and drop a piece of paper. On that paper is the address of the party.

JGA. These are some really awesome hoops to jump through.

411. They just don’t want people coming who can’t bring the heat.

JGA. Fully respect that.

411. It might take a while for them to show up, but be patient. Swear to god it’ll be worth it. Do you like lesbians?

JGA. Uh I support their Constitutional right to be free and make out and not be hassled by the government and just rub their bodies together in freedom.

411. Well then put on those party pants of yours.

JGA. Already on and fitting snug in all the right places! Information, high-five.

411. Glad to be of—

—click—

DON SWEZEY. Let me guess. It’s sickly Mr. Allen with polio in his uterus.

JGA. Boss, I— (coughing continues, followed by ghastly retching)

DS. Josh, you’re not getting out of the presentation.

JGA. Let’s say I just puked up something that could probably beat me at arm wrestling.

DS. Let’s say you’re not here in an hour wearing your one good shirt, with makeup covering up the trackmarks under your eyes, ready to tell our friends at ChemiMex why we’re the ones to help them sell their new conditioner to America. What do you think might happen?

JGA. Make Eleanor do it. The kid’s got moxie, I tellya!

DS. Actually, she’s got colorectal cancer, according to the voicemail she left about ten minutes ago.

JGA. Gah! She is so good. OK. But let’s say I got into an accident on the way in.

DS. You’re saying you will deliberately crash your car to get out of doing this presentation.

JGA. Alls I’m saying is it’s a dangerous world and I’m an extremely dangerous driver when I drink to numb the pain of my uterus polio.

DS. If you were in a serious enough accident to break your collarbone, or do something really scary to your pelvis, and if you could provide photographic evidence in the next 20 minutes or so, then I guess I’d have no choice but to show the pictures to ChemiMex and reschedule the presentation. The presentation that could make or break our company.

JGA. And what if—I’m saying if—what if the pictures didn’t clearly show my face. Or what if they did clearly show my face but it was pretty obvious that my face had been Photoshopped onto, say, a really—yeesh, a really gruesome picture from a coroner’s report that I just pulled up on the internet here. Oh boy, now I do feel sick, for reals.

DS. I could fire you but you’re just so damn good at whatever it is you do around here.

JGA. Don, seriously, that conditioner made my scalp turn black. They tested it on cute little puppies but not on John Q. Human.

DS. Josh, I did an ad for a tampon that would actually burst into flames if you put it in wrong. Let’s not go down that road.

JGA. Agreed. I’m feeling better already. See you tomorrow?

DS. Can’t wait.

—click—