“Don’t call me that.”
“–we only done got 48 hours for this safari interlude before I gotta get back to soloing. We all gonna get to Colorado and smoke doobies that are so high-class that they step out of the shower to take a dump.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“When I see these savannahs–”
“–fecund with life and stuff to look and shoot at, well: my trigger-boner gets itchy.”
“We’re not shooting anything. What are you talking about? ‘Trigger-boner’ is not a thing.”
“GONNA BRING DADDY A TROPHY!”
“Are you really my on-again/off-again celebrity boyfriend John Mayer, or is this more of the Grateful Dead’s bullshit that, as the highest-earning female performer in America last year, I neither deserve nor tolerate?”
“I may have had a sim-suit made up that mimicked Young John Mayer’s physique and features, yes.”
“And you really are?”
“Roy Head. Yes, that–”
“–Roy Head…yeah, that’s an understandable call.”
THERE IS A STRUGGLE.
“Wait. Where’s John?”
CUT TO: FRONT STREET, INTERIOR
YOU ARE PRETTY, BUT BOBBY WAS MUCH PRETTIER.
“How do you even see me? You don’t have eyes.”
HOW DO YOU MAKE SOUND WITHOUT A CENTER CLUSTER?
“Fine. Can you at least untie me.”
HOW? I HAVE NO HANDS.
“I see what you’re doing.”
YOU ARE BODY-SHAMING AND IT IS NOT RIGHT.
“You don’t have a body! You’re a semi-fictional PA system!”
ENJOY BEING TIED UP, JOHN MAYER.