The Collaborators, Another Stream of Consciousness
You must see Hair! Oh, you like that? Who doesn’t?
You must see Hair! Oh, you like that? Who doesn’t? (Profanity. Marijuana smoking. Simulated sexual acts. And a few songs.) We like songs. Know what else we like? Trudy. Here comes Peter Cottontail’s wife. She’s back and she’s coming as a bunny. It’s very wholesome.
Maybe you wanna see it again?
Theater and a hot dog? Pool party? That is the end of the welcome wagon and the beginning of switchies.
Turning now to North Korea, it’s doo-rag time.
Oh, I just bet you forgot your ciggies, Don. (We all knew it’d be you.) Flashback to a whorehouse. Ernestine told you, we could always use a little help around here. Keep your eyes down and mind your own business.
Someone sure got his cigarettes.
Turning now to Vietnam, it’s nine o’clock. Don has to go. And look at that, so productive; he has already gotten something done today. Paid for it, too.
Have a seat. No, don’t. No one should be having fun. But just because Peggy has high standards doesn’t mean she isn’t happy with you. She loves you just the way you are. No, she doesn’t. Yes, she does. It’s your work she doesn’t love. The work needs work.
This is the dawning of Pete’s Age of Aquarius. It has been known to get hot up in this pied-à-terre.
You see, Timmy, we’re going to the horse’s mouth. What can we do for you, ketchup? Just dropping by. Beans, beans, the musical fruit. There is to be no further communication with Timmy. Hear that? Timmy is off limits. Forget Vietnam; vinegar, sauces and baked beans are a suicide mission. “I’d rather retire than watch that girl screwing my girlfriend.” Timmy can probably do better than your girlfriend, bean man.
(Hate to tell you. I’m bored. Can you tell? Sometimes, you gotta dance with the one who brung you. Know what that sounds like? In life we often have to do things that just are not our bag.)
I really have to get back. Can you move it along a little?
You forgot to use S.O.S. on the Teflon! Shades of meanie Betts. You do know how to do this, Megan. And now she’s alone with your silverware.
Watching TV during the day makes you feel guilty? Didn’t know you had it in you. Guilt, that is.
Wait, miscarriage? It’s hard to tell when Megan’s in soap character or in Megan character. Someone needs some a coach. You’re not a horrible person, although your acting abilities might not be beyond reproach.
No, sorry, take it back. You are a horrible person. And I think you know it. The nerve, Sylvia.
Alert: We have feminine hygiene products. Peggy, where’s your sense of humor? She doesn’t have one.
The darkened doorway. Maybe that’s what the last episode should have been called. Toodle-oo.
Fancy meeting you here, again, Mr. Benson. Jaguar is the new hamburger. Vroom vroom. See how easy that was, Bob?
Jimmy speaking. Stan the man. All Galifianakis-like. How was your day, honey? Peggy’s on the Quest for consolation and advice, because everyone hates her here. It was bound to happen. Caught in the act. There’s nothing like things going badly when you leave, is there? Awkward.
Domestic violence bursts on the scene. What the hell happened? Pete Campbell. Good in a crisis.
Drinks, please. North Korea and Viet Cong. Two pissant countries handing our head to us. All this before the first cocktails hit the table. Talk about cutting to ribbons. Cuba reference, too. How did I not see this divine medical intervention coming?
Steak on a wound. I like your style Trudy. (Don’t even think about it, steak-eye, I’m not taking another tumble with you, says sweet Pete.)
I’m not that hungry. And though I like to chug wine, I’m going to pass on the bottle, obviously. Don’t I look good? Guess not good enough. You’d rather the eggplant rollatinis.
And you want to feel shitty right up to the point where I take your dress off. Um, yeah.
Have you decided?
Steak (again), devil style. And fast.
We can’t fall in love. Who writes this shit? Then we won’t be so French anymore. Okay. A little better.
If Megan was wearing a perfume this epi, it’d be eau de mélodrame. It would smell cloyingly floral, and a little stale.
“All I wanted was for you to be discrete. She lives on this block.” Who’s the real progressive in this family? The Hair-touting philanderer or his omniscient bride? We’re done, Peter. This is over. If Trudy was wearing a perfume this epi, it’d be eau de destruction. It would smell like steely grace under pressure, like hell without fury. And I would buy a bottle.
Think about someone in New Jersey. He’d love a low-price Jag. Truck drivers and housewives would too. Sunk your battleship there, Petey-Peaches-n-Herb.
I still have his spit in my hair.
You guys are always talking about Munich.
Rogerism (via his dead mom and Churchill): Your options were dishonor or war. You chose dishonor, you might still get war. Lots of references to that ce soir.
WTF, Bob Benson?
It’s all about what it looks like, isn’t it. (Somewhere, noble Trudy is nodding along in agreement, as the tears slide down her face.)
Come and knock on our door. Sure, even when you’re taking the trash out. This is a brothel, after all. Three’s company. Anything goes. Drop a penny, pick it up, all day long, you’ll watch ‘em fuck. Just a gigolo. So much David Lee Roth this week.
And life goes on without me.