What are you doing?
“It’s Leslie Jones!”
There’s a nuke in Las Vegas that’s about to go off, John Mayer. Why are you hanging out with comedians?
“This is much more fun than that, honestly.”
I’ll give you that one, sure. Still: this is fucked up. Stop shirking.
“I’m not shirking.”
Shirk-off.
“Not a word. Did you see Ghostbusters, or are you a sexist babyman?”
Those two things are not the only options.
“Not so sure about that.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Oh, come one. I’m having a good time.”
At everyone’s expense. You are a Ponzi-schemer of fun, John Mayer.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Y’know what: I’m just gonna answer the phone and not give you the pleasure of an argument.”
Thank God. I’ve clearly got nothing.
“What?”
Nothing.
…
“Washer of faces, launderer of clothes, and designer of jewelry John Mayer speaking. I also play guitar a little.”
“You need to do less with your greetings, John.”
“Katy?”
“No! I am an Ancient Egyptian god who owns a casino shaped like a pyramid, John! You will refer to me by my proper name!”
“And that is?”
“Pkaty.”
“How is that pronounced?”
“You heard me, John.”
“Sure. How is everything? Is it good? Problem solved?”
“Which problem, John? There are so many that you’re not helping with. Kim Jong-Un is still in the King Tut suite with a nuke. And it’s a North Korean device, John.”
“Only Korean.”
“It didn’t look all that well-built. There was duct tape, John. They put it in one of the guest bedrooms and people are throwing their coats on it, John.”
“Coats? People? Who’s up there?”
“It’s a party, John. It’s lit.”
“Dammit. How did Kim Jong-Un holding a city hostage turn into a party?”
“Doctor Gary defected.”
“Goddammit.”
“It’s wild up there, John. Doctor Gary made cocaine kimchi.”
“Cocaine kimchi?”
“It’s fermented.”
“Sure.”
“Steve Aoki is DJ’ing.”
“You didn’t tell me that! Why didn’t you say so!?”
…
“I thought maybe I’d open with the nuke, John.”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
“The insane foreigner with the weapon of mass destruction currently fucking up my carpets in the King Tut suite, remember?”
“I said you were right.”
“Before I got to the part about your friend with the playlists on his computer.”
“Okay.”
“May I continue?”
“Please.”
“Also, he kidnapped Elvis.”
“That should have been the first thing you told me.
“I KNEW you’d say that! I want to be irritated, but it just proves we’re soulmates.”
“What happened to Elvis?”
“As you know, Doctor Gary and Dr. Nick turned Elvis’ press conference, which had been going on for almost a week, into a protochemical chess match between grand wizards.”
“Masters. Chess players are grandmasters.”
“Doctor Gary is in the Klan, John.”
“Sure.”
“The press conference was lit, John. Steve Aoki DJ’ed there, too.”
“That guy’s everywhere.”
“And then Elvis’ scabby, shit-flecked, corn-poning hill mutant of a father–”
“Vernon.”
“–started doing things to people, John.”
“You said that before. What kind of things was he doing?”
…
“Things.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Thank you.”
“How did we go from a press conference/drug-off to the King getting kidnapped by Kim Jong-Un?”
“The elevator.”
“Katy.”
“Humor helps us deal with these wacky situations we keep finding ourselves in, John.”
“Sure. So?”
“On the morning of the fourth day, most of the journalists were dead or members of communes that had spontaneously formed in the Anubis ballroom. Suddenly, Elvis stopped talking about himself and changed from his press conference cape into his international diplomacy cape.”
“Do you think I’d look good in a cape?”
“You can’t pull off a cape, John. Focus.”
“Okay. Elvis is wearing his diplomat cape.”
“And he goes up to the King Tut suite to talk to Kim. He is alone, John.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Just him and the Memphis Mafia and some local cops and also I sent Big Ping Pong. That’s as alone as Elvis gets, John.”
“And then?”
“Kim Jong-Un snatched him up in a burlap sack and tossed him in the closet.”
“Fuck. Wait, what about the Memphis Mafia and Big Ping Pong and the cops?”
“Kim Jong-Un brought a lot of burlap sacks. And, as you know, there is no defense in karate against having a burlap sack thrown over you.”
“That’s why you can’t do it in tournaments, sure.”
“He sent a photo to prove they’re all alive.”
“You changed Big Ping Pong back from a hippo-person?”
“Mrs. Ping Pong complained. Every time he’d get horny, he’d get in the bathtub and shit all over the place.”
“All right. Katy–”
“Pkaty.”
“–can’t you just keep this chilled out for a little while?”
“Clearly not, John.”
“Yeah.”
“A foreign dictator is stinking up the King Tut suite with a nuke, Elvis has been kidnapped, Doctor Gary has defected, the air conditioning keeps going out on the eleventh floor, roulette action is down 3.2% this week, and I lost the bidding for the Backstreet Boys’ residency. I am a terrible casino owner, John.”
“You’re not the worst.”
“No, that would be Trump.”
“We got political.”
“It was fun. Now come here and stop the world from ending, please.”
“Okay.”
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