MIRKA: O-kay. Time to regroup.
GAVIN: Bummer. I can’t believe my boy lost.
GWEN: Dude. I thought Roger was supposed to be, like, hella good.
MIRKA: There’s always the U.S. Open. No need to panic. (beat) Fuck. I need a donut.
GAVIN: Hey, look! Messages on my BlackBerry! I wonder who called. This could be exciting.
GWEN: Oh shit, I feel a fart coming on.
MIRKA: The ship’s not sinking. It feels like it’s sinking, but it’s not sinking. (beat) I want two donuts. One glazed, one with sprinkles.
GAVIN: (checking phone) It was just the nanny. Balls. It’s always the nanny. (beat) It’s so weird that no one’s called to get Bush back together again. I mean, we personified the mid-90′s. It was all about O.J., the Rachel haircut, and us, man.
GWEN: I wonder if anyone smelled that.
MIRKA: After I have a dozen donuts, I’ll feel much better. Then I’ll go shopping for diamonds. Then I’ll withhold sex from Roger until he shapes the fuck up. Then I’ll buy more designer sweatsuits. Maybe another ostrich handbag, too. Then I’ll walk on the treadmill for two minutes, and then I’ll have a couple more donuts. Then…dinner!
GAVIN: We could reunite at Coachella, like the Pixies. I mean, we’re just as good and we were way huger. We could start touring again, and go back in the studio, and I could write songs, and grow my hair out and make it wicked greazy like it used to be, and…you know, I wonder what it would be like to work for a living again. It’s been a while. (beat) Oh god. The thought is just too weird. Like, working every day? Sheesh! It sounds so…hard.
GWEN: I can’t believe Roger lost to that Spanish dude with the big ass. I didn’t come here to watch my so-called friend blow Wimble-ton. This is so freakin’ lame. Can I get outta here without anyone seeing me? Where are my big-ass sunglasses? I hope no one recognizes me, because that would be so humiliating. (beat) God, I hate losers.
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