COACH: Look at you. Disgusting. Hungover and unshaven. Farty and weak. You’re a goddamned boisenberry. A bruised little passionfruit. Pathetic.

DOUG: What is this, TV? Fuck off. I’m fine. I’ll get it all done, and then some. I’m a goddamned rum-laced horchata. Go soak your head. Suck an egg.

COACH: [about to explode with indignation, scary-quiet and measured] You’d be well-advised to just watch that ore-plated tongue of yours, pussy. And you’d do well to really watch your swishy little step. Before something “awful”,  possibly “horrible” goes down.

DOUG: Ah, this is great: threats. Nice. What’s next? Tacos at dawn? Leap-frog with the virgins? Another holocaust? [A rappy li’l beat] Who are you, again? Remind me. Are you The Sarge? Are you Lieutenant Beefeater? Hey, Shit-wizard?

[DOUG takes one of those hand-held buttons that you press to advance a slide projector to the next slide out of his rumpled jacket’s pocket. He presses it and huge block letters appear on the white screen behind them:


DOUG and THE COACH both turn and regard the phrase for a moment. They turn back and face each other.]

COACH: What on earth is a “labial fortnight”?

DOUG: I don’t know. It’s a phrase I think I invented. It won’t leave my head.

COACH: [He’s softening to Doug, maybe a little] Labial, like… vagina?

DOUG: [Smiles; he’s softening, too] Yeah, coach. Like a vagina.

[DOUG presses the slide-projector button again. The phrase disappears, and the following footage plays in complete silence.]


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