Here we find two of our venerable professors, Archaeopteryx and August, strolling across the room, and now crossing in front of fireplace, engaged in informed conversation. Side by side, they look like imperfect mirror images of one another, one of those spot-the-differences picture games from a kid's magazine: Arch's disheveled hair is white, and August's is brown; Arch looks like he has a joke on his mind and he's looking for someone to tell it to, and August has his brow furrowed at his cup; there's an Obama T-shirt under Arch's tweed coat, and August's jacket sports beige elbow patches with a worried blue button-down beneath.
"…it's like trying to teach creatio--"
"Arrah!"
"--nists to understand history… Uh, what?"
"Have ya ever seen such a pair of doughy sprouts, off to flood their collective gorge with foul an' befuddlin' spirits? We got one flappin' his unsightly gob an' t'other ponderin' whose arsehole'd be best suited for lodging his cavernous cranium, and together they stumble forward awash in their inscrutable addlepated fancies. A sorrier pair of specimens never set foot in this stained an' sainted barn, not even when it was fair teeming to the rafters with bollocks. Would ya not concur, switters m'lad?"
Switters is struggling to stay in his chair, and he scatters the pile of Bud Light cans at his feet as he finally manages to pull himself up. " Now don't get me wrong, I like the ladies (I do) , but what we have here is a twin lump of man-meat hot enough to make mom forget about Dad for a few weeks, if you know what I mean (and I don't [mean it, that is (or do I?)]) . I'll give 'em at least pi over four for the matching tuxedos, with a half point deduction for the cock-curdling disappointment of mustard-free lapels. Expectations people!!! Arch? Augie? 'Sup dawgs."
August has lost his train of thought under the weight of this impromptu judgement, and struggles to respond. "Uh, um… 'sup?" Arch just shrugs, and then suspiciously eyes a jar of mustard sitting on the table beyond. He nudges August's elbow and gestures urgently at the keg. They fill their cups hurriedly and exeunt, barely pursued.
The two judges remain seated in their chairs, waiting for the next contestant. Switters happily pops open another beer, looking for all the world like the last scene in a where-are-they-now montage for that guy who starred in Freaked. Zeus-Boy (for who else could it be?) is leaning forward with an elbow on his knee, dark hair spilling around his handsome face, and tonight, there's a rogue's glint in his eye. On the floor next to him is the Guinness that Schmutzie pushed into his hand on arrival, but it remains untouched. Switters nudges Zeus-Boy's shoulder and gestures to their left.
Biteoftheweek is stalking--that would be the word for it--out of the bathroom area, quite understandably annoyed: those men at the little table really aren't anywhere near cute enough to get away with comments like that. Her back's up, and she moves crisply, deliberately, as if she were trying to spear olives with her heels. Are they looking at her? Good. She crosses onto the "catwalk" between the chairs and the fireplace.
"Jayzus, an' now this one's a looker, swit, a-coming fresh as a flower from the stinkin' jakes. Delicate as a lily's kiss she is. You could spit-shine a tyke's arse on that comely smooth expanse a forehead. Aw, an' now look at the doxie, screwin' that scrawny nape about, what, ya wanna go charmin' the atrophied snakes from the smegmatic baskets held by them half-conscious gorillas in the corner, lady? Goin'ta squeeze some life outta the five wizened gonads they got distributed uncomfortably between the three of 'em? You'll have to get their own paws off'em first. Jayz, best she keeps her trap muzzled, else she might auger a sliver of offence even into the cementitious noggins of yonder trio of eejits."
"Like I was saying, not only did he take the hundred yard stare in Collateral all the way out to 178 yards, he completely carried Battlefield Earth too. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. He wasn't in the credits, but he was clearly the seventeenth klingon on the starship G'kar-bot7. Don't believe me? Look at the hair. And what the fuck was with the slanted cameras? Hey Travolta, Cesar Romero called. He wants his lair back."
"Exactly." Zeus-Boy turns back to Bite. "Now off with ya, ya culchie git, before I tell you what I think."
"Bite m'dear," switters adds. "I give you a twelve, minus a half point for the Hillary. Hint: it's the Jews."
Bite's expression has gone through liquid-eyed charm, to offense, to abject confusion. As the judgement is passed, she decides to play it safe and nurture some indignity for awhile. She glares at each of the men, and then stomps away towards the dance floor. SnollyG, coming the other way with an empty cocktail glass in his hand, bumps into her. "Fucking misogynist," she mutters. Before he can respond, he finds he's backpedaled his way into the gauntlet.
"Now look at this chancer an' tell me he ain't as out of place as a shite on a church pew?"
"Kyu, m'boy."
"Look about, ya silly gobshite, nothing but drooping poxied relics far as you'll see, packed in here dribbling cheek by porcine jowl in this teetering sweat lodge, a veritable orgy of pustulating cottage cheese undulating horrifically this way an' that. And here's yer dear smooth-pressed self, not a hair outta kilter, measured within an inch of yer standard nautical catalogue specifications. Where d'ya think y'are, a bleedin' Yank nightclub? Bollocks! Gotta go with a seven here, switters, lost a couple for showin' up shined like an apple to visit the feckin' raisin box."
"Look, we don't want contestants like kyu, we need contestants like kyu. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll feel slightly disinterested, and then get up to take a leak, pour a glass of milk, and maybe come back again if nothing else is going on. Newsflash! OBAMA IS THE ANTICHRIST burp AND SARAH PALIN HAS BEEN SENT BY GOD TO catch you later DELIVER US ALL UNTO THE HOLY oh, and 7.1325459 CHRISTIAN RAPTURE, NOW WITH EXTRA CHRISTTM this is fun! SO REPENT SINNERS AND DEMOCRATS!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Switters takes a deep breath, and then another pull off his beer. As one, he and Zeus-Boy swivel their heads to face the crowd, ready for the next victim.
DrNo takes a trembling step forward, ready for the worst…
