Acknowledgments to the works of Rockstar Ryan

RYAN: Bob, you wear a thong, dude??

BOB: Shut up, dude, it’s comfortable!

RON: How is ass-floss comfortable?!

SEAN: Yeah, dude, how’d you go from boxer briefs to a thong??

BOB: (under his breath) Shut up, man… The wife likes it.

LYA: ROCKSTAR! Get your ass on the stage!

RYAN: Oh, shit, that’s my cue!

(Rockstar Ryan rips his shirt off, dons a dog collar and jumps up on stage next to Lya. They both belt out the final chorus together. Lya slings her guitar over her back and squats cat-like on the edge of the stage.)

LYA: (with come-hither finger motions) Here, Bobby, Bobby.

SEAN: (to Bob) Oh, shit, man. She digs the thong.

(The audience chants BOBBY! BOBBY! BOBBY! He is paralyzed with stage-fright. Ryan is bouncing maniacally all over the stage, trying to come up with a better finale than Bob’s thong. Rob has gone for a beer. KR, Ford, EoR and Marcus come speeding into the concert hall on Harleys, screeching to a halt mere feet from the stage. Marcus jumps off his bike, runs up and plants a wet one on Lya. She promptly places him under a stiletto-heeled boot.)

MARCUS: (barely audible) mommy.

KR, FORD, EOR, SEAN: Let’s get ‘im!!

(All the other boys grab Bob and lift his half-naked, thong-wearin’ patootie into the air, about to hurl him onstage, when suddenly his wife comes leaping out of nowhere, dressed in a dominatrix outfit.)

D: Bobby!!

(She cracks her whip and adjusts her cat mask.)

Bob: (hanging upside-down, blood rushing to his head) Yeah, babe?

D: I told you to get that thong on and meet me in the car in 15 minutes! We’ve got a fetish party to go to!

BOB: Oh, right, babe. Hey, boys. Can you, uh… lemme down, please?

(They do so. D wraps her whip around Bob’s neck. He grabs it and yanks her to him for a manly kiss. Lifting her up in his arms, he carries her into the dark as she giggles and kicks her boots in the air. On stage, Rockstar and Lya belt out their final lines. Lya chews a bite out of the kick drum. The band explodes, leaving behind only small globules of green liquid. Lya wipes a bead of sweat off her brow, hurls her microphone into the balcony, braining a stoned Slash look-alike.)

LYA: Okay, boys. Party in the green room in five.

(She blows them all kisses, grabs Rockstar by the collar and leads him offstage in a cloud of theater smoke. The other guys all go scrambling for the men’s room to check and see if there is any cilantro left in their teeth from the burritos they had earlier. Silence. Re-enter Ron from ceiling. Ron is wearing a cloak and should descend slowly.]

RON: (alights, takes sip from beer) Where’d everybody go?

Sorry. I only flirt with men, not little boys who have imaginary friends.

Which means, I only shamelessly flirt with Sean, Bob, Ron, Ryan, Marcus, King, Eor, etc.