“What fuckery is this?”

Josh?

“Nope. A little lower.”

…

Wolf?

“Mr. Wolf. Put some respect on my name.”

Sorry. Mr. Wolf.

“Do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

I’m sorry?

“I said…do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

No.

“THEN WHY IS EVERYONE FINGERING ME?”

Ew.

“What’s happening here is not consensual. Who is this diphthong?”

That’s John Mayer.

“Who is he?”

He’s the Bobby now.

“What is Bobby doing?”

Bobby’s the Garcia.

“Is Mickey still Mickey?”

Mickey is incapable of change.

“Thank God for small favors. I mean, it’s bad enough when Woody Hayes plays me every summer, but at least he’s a fat guy. I like to rest against a big belly. It’s my thing.”

Okay.

“Don’t judge me.”

I wasn’t.

“I like ’em thick.”

FINE!

“But this guy? I can feel abs under his tee-shi–”

…

What?

“Don’t tell me he’s wearing one of the Big Guy’s tee-shirts, too.”

I don’t think so.

“Hey, tell me I’m wrong for thinking it was a possibility.”

You are not wrong.

“Holy shit, he’s playing me all fucked-up.”

How so?

“Well, he hasn’t clammed a note in…all night, really.”

True.

“And he’s playing too fast. I’ll tell you this right now: he does any of that Van Halen shit on me and I’ll have him murdered in his sleep.”

I don’t think he will.

“Jesus, this is a nightmare.”

Just get through it, Mr. Wolf.

“Yeah, yeah.”

…

“Hey.”

Mm-hmm?

“What happened to Phil?”

Long story.