Your frustration with Gina yields as you contemplate the joys of wanton merrymaking with inebriated compatriots. Rosco’s stag party. How could you forsake such fun? And then your reverie on revelry is interrupted as a sudden panic grips you: Rosco’s stag party isn’t next weekend – it’s tomorrow! And you’ve been tasked with planning the whole thing, but haven’t made any progress!
Fie to Martha and her pies – you have a job to do! You hastily swoop Gina into your arms and profess your undying love for her – and her bike lanes. You tell her sorry over and over and over again. While it’s possible that your effusive apologies have been undercut by your gradual move towards the door, you suspect that you’ve done enough to keep Gina on side for now.
Escaping Gina’s embrace with a promise to both literally and metaphorically help her “clean her gears” later on, you throw yourself out on the street. First assignment: find the entertainment.
You look left and right down the street, racking your brain. How could you possibly find strippers for tomorrow evening this late on a Friday? The dull thud of pies on the window behind you is making it hard to concentrate (an incensed Martha is taking out her anger on Gina, hurling her wares at your cyclist amour, coating the cafe with explosions of crust and filling). You decide to head home and regroup.
It’s as you step out to hail a cab that your eyes once again fall on the “working girls” across the street. That’s one way Rosco would certainly remember this party, you think to yourself. You imagine the look of surprise on his face, what angle would be best to capture a picture of his reaction. Grinning, you decide you’ll go for it.
“Any of you fine ladies want to make some money?!?” you call out, waving your wallet in the air.
The flash of red and blue lights catches you off guard and you freeze in the middle of the street, your billfold still held above your head. A squad car pulls out of a narrow alley and blocks the street. Two officers step out, blinding you with their flashlights.
“Well son, what have you got to say for yourself?”