So the two of you get in the car at 8:47 in the morning for the ten-hour land-speed dash to Toronto. You’ve got coffee. You’ve got snacks. You’ve got maps. It’s snowing to beat the band and neither of you remembered to bring your Aimee Mann tapes, but by the grace of NPR you figure you’ll survive.

Fast-forward four hours. Although neither of you dares mention your suspicions to the other, you’ve begun sincerely to believe that you will never, ever get out of Pennsylvania – that you’ve passed through some advanced-physics wormhole and wound up on the soundstage of Groundhog State. Your various attempts to keep the windshield fit for seeing through, all of which have failed, have driven a wedge between you; one of you keeps hitting the “intermittent” button in the hopes that the snow has gotten wet enough to warrant actual windshield wiping, and the other howls, “Why? Why do you keep doing that? Look at that?” “Look at what? I can’t SEE anything!” “You can’t see anything? YOU CAN’T SEE ANYTHING? We’re MERGING, for god’s sake, just USE THE FLUID!” “Okay, do you have a steering wheel in front of you? NO? NO, YOU DON’T, so SHUT. UP!” “Then DON’T ASK me WHY you keep DOING THAT because I DON’T KNOW and I KEEP TELLING you NOT. TO!” “YOU’RE FIRED!” “You can’t FIRE me, I quit in NEW JERSEY, you just didn’t HEAR ME because you were too busy singing TUNELESSLY along with MEN AT WORK.” “I only did that to DROWN OUT the sound of you HARMONIZING with THE BACKSTREET FUCKING BOYS, and by the way, now that you’ve quit, YOU CAN WALK TO TORONTO.” “Well, I feel I should tell you now that we’re CONDUCTING MY EXIT INTERVIEW -” “WE are not conducting ANYTHING. I am SLOWING DOWN, and you are GETTING YOUR BAG and GETTING OUT OF THE CAR.” “Fine, FINE, but while I’m DEPARTING the CAR, which is a PIECE OF SHIT, and excuse me but it is NOT FINE that you haven’t cleaned it since JESUS JONES was at the top of the charts, you PIG, like, it’s called a GARBAGE can, so LOOK INTO IT -” “Don’t talk to me like that, FIRED BOY!” “I’ll talk to you any way I please, BAD-HAIR FORMER BOSS, and one more thing, that blouse DOES TOO gap, I only told you it didn’t to SPARE YOUR FEELINGS, but it’s obvious that you HAVE NO FEELINGS, because you are DUMPING ME on the SHOULDER of the interstate in the middle of PENNSYLVANIA, and I HATE YOU!” “Oh, YEAH? Well, your glasses are UGLY, and you know how I laughed when you joked about using the word ‘filibuster’ all the time in your recaps? IT WAS A LAUGH OF DEJECTED BITTERNESS.” “You call that a COMEBACK? It’s a wonder your CHECKS didn’t BOUNCE.” “They did for you, BITCH, so take your bag of Rold Golds and GET OUT OF MY CAR!” “GLADLY!”

seven minutes later

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Any luck getting a ride?” “Well, given that I’m not in a car right now ” “No.” “Right.” “I’m bored.” “Me too. I’m also cold.” “I’m sorry.” “Whatever.” “Please come back to work for me.” “Can I sing?” “Yes.” “That blouse doesn’t really gap. Unless, you know, you were reaching for something.” “Okay. But don’t say ‘whatever’ to me in that tone.” “What ‘tone’?” “You know what tone.” “Do I have to get out of the car again? Because I’d really like to wait until we get to New York State.” “Just don’t use that tone.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

an hour later

“Okay, I’m trying really hard not to say anything, but ” “I know, I know. Some droplets formed, I thought the wipers would work. Just go ahead and say it, and we’ll view it as a blanket statement for the rest of the trip – like, you’ll sigh really loudly and I’ll know what you mean.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” “Are you going to fire me?” “Probably not.” “Okay.” “Wait. Okay, see? That almost worked.” “Once. In five hours. Just let me say it.” “Okay.” “Okay, ready?” “Yeah.” “JUST USE THE FLUID!” “Feel better?” “Much. Except that I sort of have to pee.” “All right, we need gas so I’m stopping anyway. Should we get a book on tape? No offense but I am so damn bored right now.” “So am I. No offense.”

“We didn’t get a book on tape.” “Well I mean, Robert Ludlum?” “No, I know. I’m just saying.” “Is there a game we can play?” “Botticelli. Or the alphabet game.” “Is there anyone we didn’t talk shit about yet?” “No.” “Sure?” “Yes. I checked my address book.” “Shit.” “How about Death Is Not An Option?” “Hee hee.” “Hee.” “I’d play that.” “Yeah, me too.” “No – seriously.” “No, so am I.” “Okay, you start.”

forty minutes later

“Mr. DRUMMOND? You would sleep with Mr. DRUMMOND. He’s a million years old!” “Well, come on! Mr. Belvedere is obviously a child molester!” “No, he is not. And he can cook!” “So you’d sleep with a child-molesting guy shaped like a Weeble? That is disgusting.” “Okay, I don’t WANT to sleep with Mr. Belvedere, but if it’s that or Mr. D – I mean, Mr. Drummond is older than God, AND he’s ALL ONE COLOR! You CANNOT sleep with someone who’s all one color.” “Huh?” “He’s monochromatic! Light beige! Hair, suit, skin – he’s like the pale ecru Shmoo.” “But Mr. Belvedere is an asshole, and I don’t think you should sleep with the help.” “‘The help’? ‘The HELP’? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” “Not kidding.”

“Eeeeeeeewwww.” “Oh, come on. Before his hair started falling out, he wasn’t that bad.” “Yeah, but ew.” “Don’t say ‘ew’ to me – you said you’d sleep with PRESENT-DAY Travolta.” “Yes, over present-day Leif Garrett. Come on! At least Travolta isn’t getting arrested.” “He’s a Scientologist.” “I know that, but I don’t have to marry the guy, I just have to sleep with him.” “He’s a Scientologist, and he’s fat.” “He has hair.” “I just don’t see it.” “Look, I can see where you’re going with Garrett, but seriously, he reminds me of a cocker spaniel. I don’t judge you, but I’ve got to go with Travolta and that’s it.” “Damn.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh MAN, Dudley MOORE?” “Dudley Moore or Mr. Drummond. Call it.” “Mr. Drummond.” “So you’re forsaking Belvedere?” “Don’t make me hit you. The fact that you brought up Dudley Moore, while I’m driving and therefore in a decidedly inconvenient position throwing-up-wise -” “Sorry.” “You should be.”

“Jerry Seinfeld or Tim Allen?” “AUGH! You can’t make me choose between those two.” “Sorry, dude.” “Oh, man. I can’t. I seriously can’t.” “You have to.” “Dude. I guess I’ve gotta say Jerry Seinfeld.” “Ewwww.” “You’d fuck TIM ALLEN?” “Well, yeah. Under protest, of course.” “EW!” “I know, but Seinfeld? He’s got the frizzy mullet, he’s always with the white sneakers ” “But, but, TIM ALLEN?” “I can’t sleep with a guy who has a smaller waist than I do!” “TIM ALLEN?” “His stand-up isn’t horrible, always.” “TIM ALLEN?” “JERRY SEINFELD?” “TIM ALLEN?” “JERRY SEINFELD?” “All right, all right. Jerry Seinfeld or Richard Belzer?” “Belzer, definitely.” “Ew, BELZER?” “Look, I’m not sleeping with Seinfeld.”

thirty minutes later

“Okay, I’d just like to make it clear right now that I would rather load a revolver, put it in my mouth, and pull the trigger than have anything to do with Kevin Nealon’s penis.” “Really? Why?” “I don’t know, I just can’t abide the man – the minute I saw him he gave me the heebs and it just never stopped.” “So Hartman or Nealon, it’s Hartman?” “It’s never Nealon.” “David Spade or Nealon?” “Aughah! Uhhhhhh. David Spade. EW, I can’t BELIEVE you’re making me sleep with DAVID SPADE!” “I’m not MAKING you!” “You ARE!” “Seinfeld or Nealon?” “STOP! Seinfeld.” “Garry Shandling or Nealon?” “STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP! Shandling.” “You’d sleep with SHANDLING?” “Nealon. It’s never, ever Nealon.” “Kathie Lee or Nealon?” “Okay, now you’re abusing the Nealon.” “You said it was never Nealon! So it’s Kathie Lee.” “No, this time it’s Nealon.” “Nealon?” “Kathie Lee?” “I’d take Nealon.” “Yeah, but you don’t despise Nealon. Plus, you said you’d rather sleep with her than Regis.” “Okay, now I’m invoking the all-one-color argument.” “That’s MY argument.” “So? I can use it.” “But Regis himself is not all one color. His CLOTHING is all one color. Conrad Bain and Jonathan Taylor Thomas are physically, organically all one color. And besides, Kathie Lee.” “She’s not that bad.” “‘She’s not that bad’? ‘She’s NOT THAT BAD’? Do you HEAR YOURSELF?” “Kathie Lee or David Spade?” “It’s NOT even YOUR TURN! David Spade. You’re making me sleep with David Spade. Again.” “I’m not making you. Every human being has free will. Nealon or Bob Saget?” “Bob Saget.” “You know, even I would fuck Bob Saget in that situation.” “Please. Kevin Nealon’s WIFE would fuck Bob Saget in that situation.”

five minutes later

“Nealon or Michael Douglas?” “Okay, with the Nealon flogging? You’re reeeeeally pushing it.” “Yeah, but if it’s not Kathie Lee, then it’s not Nealon.” “Yeah, but – see, Michael Douglas is, like, the Vice Nealon.” “So ” “So that’s like ” “Nealon.” “No no, wait, it IS Nealon.” “So then he’s not the Vice Nealon. He’s the Nealon, himself.” “No, Nealon is the Vice Douglas.” “Right. Or Nealon is the Arch Nealon.” “No, DOUGLAS is the Arch Nealon.” “My head hurts.” “Here, have a Diet Coke.”

one hour later

“I can’t possibly choose.” “You have no choice but to choose.” “Wilford Brimley or Charles Durning? The oatmeal guy or the blueberry? That’s not a choice. That’s hell.” “That’s the game. And what blueberry?” “My family saw George C. Scott and Charles Durning in a really sad production of Inherit The Wind a few years ago – I mean, really sad, like Scott didn’t even know his lines. I think it killed him in the end, this play. Anyway, Durning was topping out at like four hundred pounds at that point, and Mr. Stupidhead started calling him ‘The Blueberry’ at intermission because every time he turned to the side, he really looked like, you know, a blueberry, and during the third act Mr. S kept whispering in my ear, ‘The Bloooooobeddy’ in a British accent, and I started giggling and had to run out into the lobby and compose myself.” “Uh huh.” “Here.” “What’s this?” “It’s fifty cents for telling you a boring story.” “Oh. So what’s your answer?” “Charles Durning.” “After all that with him looking like a grape -” “A blueberry. It’s totally different. A grape is spherical, but a blueberry is, like, beyond that, fatness-wise, because it’s all flattened out -” “Whatever, a blueberry. He looks like a blueberry, but you’d still rather sleep with him than Wilford?” “Well, yeah.” “Ew.” “You’d take Brimley?” “Totally Brimley.” “Ew! Ewwww.” “You’re making it sound like I’d stake out his trailer or something.” “Ew ew ew ew ew.” “Excuse me – DURNING.” “Excuse ME. Buh-RIMLEY.”

fifteen seconds before getting out of the car

“Fichtner or Clooney?” “Aw. Bless you my son. Fichtner.” “You’re welcome.” “Thank you. Clooney or Wahlberg?” “Oh, Wahlberg.” “Really?” “Really.” “Okay, I can see that.” “Okay. Clooney for you?” “Clooney for everyone, baby.” “Except me.” “Except you.” “Am I walking home?” “No.”

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