“Iron Throne is a blonde ale at 6.5% ABV and brewed with a robust amount of pils, honey, aroma malts and red wheat. Gentle hopping includes Styrian Golding and Hallertau, appropriately noble hops.”
INT. HIP L.A. NIGHT CLUB
Vinnie and his boys are sitting on what appears to be a living room set the size of most people’s apartments, just adjacent to the dance floor. All of the waitresses resemble lingerie models whose agents told them doing extra work on Entourage would get them noticed; off screen they are all horrible to each other. Jerry Ferrara is visibly starving.
VINCENT: Guys, I just want to say that the past six months of hanging out and going to fun parties have been some of the best six months of hanging out and going to fun parties of my life. I love you guys.
DRAMA: We love you too, baby bro—especially since you’re paying.
Everyone laughs, even though this barely resembles a joke and is, in fact, the bluntly stated subtext of both their relationships and the entire show.
TURTLE: Hey, but I’ve got the next round, okay? It’s the least I can do, considering I’m also now a millionaire, thanks to tequila or baked clams or sneakers or rappers, or whatever that last idea was that somehow made a lot of money finally.
DRAMA: The next round? Hell, I’ve got the next week. After what you did, Vin, putting me in that TV movie about miners and a dog? Now everybody wants a piece of Johnny Drama, because that’s how Hollywood works, apparently.
TURTLE: Yeah, Drama, all it took to make it look like you have charisma was to put you next to a dog and a rock.
Everyone laughs, as this is just the kind of playful busting-of-balls enjoyed by healthy heterosexual males who spend every waking moment of their adult lives together.
ERIC: Well, I also owe all of you for what you did getting me back together with Sloan so I could be a father to our baby, something which I now balance with my jet-setting management career and also hanging out with you guys and going to fun—
His cell phone rings.
ERIC: (answering) Hey, Sloan!
He exits to take the call. The audience realizes that they are relieved, like when the refrigerator you didn’t even notice was buzzing finally stops. They imagine that just out of frame is a cliff from which Eric tumbles into infinite nothingness.
DRAMA: Yeah, E., that’s because we couldn’t stand to see the little guy sold off to the sideshow as an Oompa-Loompa and—
TURTLE: He’s gone, Drama.
There is an awkward silence. Vincent continues to half-smile vaguely at nothing to convey that he is alive.
Suddenly, Ari bursts into the club, randomly calling people “fag” on his way in.
ARI: How’d I know I’d find the cast of Bridesmaids here?
VINCENT: Ari! How’s life as a successful media mogul?
ARI: Vinnie, my balls are so big you could cast them in the next Expendables sequel—and if Stallone or Schwarzenegger get any more wrinkled, we just might. But I’m not here to talk about my balls, at least no more than every 30 seconds or so. We’ve got a problem: The studio is mounting a biopic of Steve Jobs, and our first choice, Daniel Day-Lewis, had to drop out.
VINCENT: What happened?
ARI: The crazy Method fucker actually gave himself cancer—or maybe not. What the fuck do I know? All I know is, we’re short one Steve Jobs, and naturally we need talented and revered actor Vinnie Chase, whom everyone in this town that is obviously the real Hollywood knows is every bit the equal of Daniel Day-Drink-My-Fucking-Dickshake-Lewis.
Eric pops in, still on his cell phone. The audience is instantly, inexplicably uncomfortable, like the feeling you get when some part of your clothing is irritating you but you can’t pinpoint exactly where.
ERIC: You gotta do this, Vinnie. Steve Jobs is the role of a—hang on, I’ve got a call on the other line. Hey, Sloan! I’ve got Sloan on the other line…
He exits again. There is next to no chance that this is permanent.
ARI: So whaddaya say, Vinnie? Are you gonna think different, or think like a pussy?
DRAMA: Go for it, baby bro! Hey, maybe I can play Bill Gates?
ARI: Drama, you’ve got a better chance of playing Bill Cosby.
TURTLE: Yeah Vinnie, go for it. Maybe we could get Apple to invest in my new app for helping you find the best tequila and sneakers to go with your baked clams, or whatever the fuck it is I do again.
VINCENT: All right, I’ll do it. But I want a free iPod!
ARI: Vinnie, you do this and I’ll get you your own iPod factory in China. With all that slave labor at your disposal, maybe Turtle here can finally get laid. Now let’s hug it out, bitch. This is your fifth or sixth consecutive moment, baby!
Everyone hugs aggressively in a circle, resembling a rugby scrum with less sublimated homoeroticism.
ERIC: (holding one hand over his phone, somehow being heard over a loud, packed nightclub) Guys, guess what? Sloan is pregnant again with another Sloan! She’s calling me from within Sloan’s uterus right now!
DRAMA: (holding one hand over his crotch) Ohhhh! E’s gonna be a father to a confusing paradox that calls into question the very bounds of our reality! Ohhhhh!
TURTLE: (holding one hand over a sandwich he is dying to devour) I am nothing! I AM NOTHING!!!!
ERIC: Nice, Turtle.
VINCENT: Hey, wait a minute. Didn’t I get married?
He did get married. This causes problems that would seem to preclude hanging out and going to fun parties while also making a movie.
At the last minute, all of those problems work out.
Kanye West flies in on his private jet and they hang out and have a fun party.