DON, JR.: Hey, man, welcome to mi casa! You like the custom doorbell? “Enter Sandman” — fucking genius, right?
KIMBERLY: (from the kitchen) Babe?
DON, JR.: Yeah, babe?
KIMBERLY: Is that your friend?
DON, JR.: No, it’s a fucking bible salesman who somehow got through security! Sorry, dude, total shitshow here the last three hours. Plates flying, broken margarita glass all over the Siberian tiger rug. Is my forehead bleeding? Fuck it — whatever doesn’t kill you. What’s your poison? Dom? Jose? This kick-ass vodka you can only get in the Kremlin but I know a guy? No problemo. Mind if I keep the party going myself?
KIMBERLY: Hello, hello, hello! What can I get you to drink?
DON, JR.: Babe, I already asked him, he’s fine with water, he’s probably sober, stop calling attention to it, show some class. Take a load off on the cowhide sectional, kemosabe. This sound system’s insane — listen to Bonham absolutely crush this drum solo. Wait, it’s coming…
KIMBERLY: Babe, should I serve the—
DON, JR.: Shut the fuck up, the solo’s coming…boo-ya! (air-drums) Bonham, man. Fucking greatest.
KIMBERLY: Popcorn shrimp, anyone?
DON, JR.: Have one — they’re so goddamn good.
KIMBERLY: So good.
DON, JR.: You don’t need to repeat me, babe, we’re not pushing it, it’s not like I invested all my assets through nested shell companies into the Thai shrimp supplier of this particular popcorn shrimp brand, and the entire fucking business plan is for me to entertain old friends and individually target them by touting its superior flavor and perfect crunch.
KIMBERLY: I’m sorry, babe.
DON, JR.: No, I’m sorry. I love you so much.
KIMBERLY: I love you so fucking much.
(They make out passionately.)
DON, JR.: Check out the taxidermy colección. That’s a grizzly I took down with a twelve-gauge, there’s a fawn I nailed with an AK-47, and next to it is the fawn’s newborn sister I bagged with a land mine. All I’m missing is a Democrat, because they’re savage fucking animals. Ha, don’t tweet that, the lamestream media and radical-left cancel culture will have a field day since it’s not “PC” in 2020 to joke that I’d like to kill and stuff and mount for display my political opponents whom I consider to be subhuman. (pacing the room while sweating) You catch my latest video on the ’Gram where I completely owned the snowflake libs? Killed it. The only problem was I didn’t know how to read aloud the emoji of crying while laughing.
KIMBERLY: Mine was good, too, right, babe?
DON, JR.: Yeah, it was fine, whatever. Sure you don’t want any newborn fawn, chief? Coolio. What’s for dessert?
KIMBERLY: Shit. I forgot dessert.
DON, JR.: Jesus Christ, Kimberly. What are you on payroll for? Let’s just dip the popcorn shrimp in honey. That’s the beauty of popcorn shrimp — it’s good for any meal. I like to toss a few in the ’wave for breakfast, crack open my third Red Bull of the day, and I’m ready to make America great again by thinking up dank memes that get massive engagement with the rural white male and Q-adjacent demos. Well, how about a digestif, broheim? Oh, right, you’re sober and don’t want to call attention to it, fuck me, I’m such an asshole, I hate myself. You feel like crashing here and staying up all night watching the Russian roulette scene in The Deer Hunter on a loop? Hokay, amigo. Give my best to the wife and kids if you have any.
KIMBERLY: I’m so sorry about tonight, babe. I’m the worst.
DON, JR.: No — I’m the worst.
KIMBERLY: You’re, like, the worst person in history, babe.
DON, JR.: Damn straight. Even worse than my dad.
(They make out passionately.)
KIMBERLY: You think we sold him on the popcorn shrimp?
DON, JR.: I don’t know, babe. I just don’t fucking know. (sighs while staring into the distance with dilated pupils) Let’s hit the rotating waterbed.