House and Garden

As we enter up the bucolic lane of the large estate of the DUNLAP HOME, to the strains of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, where we see plush gardens and a fine manicured lawn, leading up to the front door of a beautiful, palatial colonial home. The front door opens to reveal FRANK AND TRACEY DUNLAP, an attractive couple who look like they are straight out of a R.R. Bean catalogue, a hybrid of Martha Stewart and a slightly more masculine version of P. Allen Smith, media darlings of their once popular HOUSE AND GARDEN SHOW, as they greet their television audience. Together they convey an overly unctuous television persona oozing with saccharine, almost to the point of ad nauseam. We the audience, proceed into their dream house, a showcase of perfection as both FRANK and TRACEY give their own dissertation on the marvels of home décor. In this world it is the stuff that dreams are made of, until we hear the real truth behind the close doors through the VOICE of FRANK DUNLAP, as his lovely wife TRACEY like a beautiful robotic Stepford Wife, extoling the virtue “of floral design pattern,” almost as if she were Vanna Wife leading us to a letter while under the influence of medication and indeed she is, as FRANK points out in his voice over.” She was everything, beautiful gracious, kind. A woman any man would want. The perfect wife (BEAT.) until she was off... her meds.” With this abrupt and sudden revelation, this antiseptic world comes to a screeching halt as we are thrown from this comfortable dream world to the real nightmare that lies beneath the squeaky clean façade of HOUSE AND GARDEN to: The law office of the divorce attorney LOU FUNNARRO, where we see TRACEY DUNLAP, a completely different woman who we just saw previously in the pristine, idyllic setting of HOUSE AND GARDEN, almost as if she could be TRACEY’S evil twin, ranting and raving, screaming and yelling like a complete mad woman who no longer is taking her meds, exclaiming how much she wants her scumbag husband DEAD!! “I WANT TO KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER!! I want to put his sorry ass in a wood chipper!!” (Here is a woman’s brain – here is a woman’s brain off drugs.) LOU, her lawyer, quiets her down and reminds her that he is not a hit man, but… a lawyer. Meanwhile at The Porcupine Bar and Grill is where FRANK DUNLAP is with his old friend TOM ALDREDGE, part Falstaff, part middle age John Belushi. FRANK confesses to TOM that he has an eerie premonition that something “really bad” will happen to him and TOM agrees that yes that might very well be, knowing the history of TRACEY. FRANK also tells TOM all the anxiety he felt as well, about “The Dinner Party From Hell” that his agent BURT LEVY had planned. FLASHBACK to the office of FRANK DUNLAP’S agent BURT LEVY. BURT is consoling a nervous, jittery FRANK that everything will be alright and to look at the Big Picture, “The Party.” A party that BURT, FRANK and TRACEY have been planning for a long time, in the hopes of luring in the giant media mogul MATHEW LESTER who ironically enough was the first producer of FRANK and TRACEY DUNLAP’S show HOUSE AND GARDEN. As BURT explains, “Okay, this dinner party is a great plan to establish a beach head into Lester publishing and a major coup for us. Mathew Lester is now one of the biggest media moguls in the industry today. Hard to believe that not too long ago he co-produced your show House and Garden. So now that he has just acquired The Home Network, it’s a slam dunk. So let’s not drop the ball. You can do this, kiddoe. Just give a great show. And remember, if you can’t bedazzle them with brilliance...” FRANK: ... baffle them with bullshit.” I know. (BEAT) Funny, I do believe that’s what we will be serving at this dinner party tonight, plenty of bullshit.” Needless to say FRANK is far too pessimistic. Again, he has the premonition that this “dinner party’s” main ingredient is sheer chaos. To him it will be the ultimate case of Murphy’s Law, anything that will go wrong… will. To say he is apprehensive is an understatement. To him the dinner party is his ultimate D-Day, D for disaster. An INTERCUT of scenes between the law office of LOU FUNNARRO and the restaurant scene with TOM and FRANK. TOM: “Listen, I know this has got to be a very lonely period for you. So here’s my suggestion to you and its important know...” LOU FUNARRO: (To Tracey.) “... It’s important because we need the element of surprise. Who knows, he could be seeking his own council this very minute as we speak.. BACK to the Porcupine Bar and Grill where FRANK is seeking his own counsel. TOM: “....Or if your thing is having some unsuspecting gerbil do road work in your lower colon. I mean whatever floats your boat…” FRANK, “What about the poor gerbil?” TOM is FRANK’S Falstaff, a card carrying pagan, who is a figure straight out of The Bacchanal, with the mind of a New Jersey landfill; a mental landscape of mountains of refuse, littered with… “Lesbian pornography,” has now relegated himself to being Dr. Phil and has offered guidance to get FRANK through these dark time with anything, from a pet gerbil to “a little porno until Hurricane Tracey blows over,” which offers little or no consolation. After leaving the restaurant, TOM, who is now thoroughly drunk tries to get FRANK to go to a bar with him. FRANK, “Whatya have a bet going on with Nick Nolte?” TOM, “him and Mel Gibson. Come on! Let’s give ‘em a run for their money.” And off they go to: THE SHAMROCK TAVERN where FRANK and TOM are totally wasted after just downing their third Boiler Maker. FRANK is just doing the inventory on anything that he might have done wrong to deserve the hell that he is now in. As far as he can see the day that led up to what he can only describe as “The Battle of Dunkirk,” started out innocently enough as we the audience slowly fall back away from FRANK as he is recalling that day’s events, slowly fading to: A FLASHBACK: CLOSE UP of ALFRED, FRANK’S dog squatting to take a dump on a neighbor’s yard, as FRANK who is waiting impatiently, then begrudgingly stoops to pick up ALFRED’S little gift. An angry NEIGHBOR swings open his front door, screaming at FRANK. “That’s the second time your dog shit on my yard.” Ahh! Perhaps this is the prelude for the dread to come. FRANK apologizes in the vain attempt to defuse the situation by injecting a little levity. “Sorry, he’s a bit incontinent. It must of been the Frappuccino and prune Danish he had for breakfast.” The ANGRY NEIGHBOR isn’t laughing and just scowls at FRANK. Later FRANK and ALFRED are walking on a neighborhood street. FRANK looking like a gold miner returning from the Yukon, loaded down with bags of gold, but in this case; ALFRED’S shit, whistling the Beatles, “It’s a Hard Day’s Night.” Then under his breath his version of the song, “It’s a hard days’ night and I’ve been walking with my dog...” The BACK PATIO of FRANK and TRACEY DUNLAP’S HOME. TRACEY is in the midst of grafting a rare exotic orchid with Buddhist concentration. This is the one thing in the world that keeps her sane and keeps her glued together. FRANK and the family dog, ALFRED suddenly appear with his catch of the day singing now in full voice. FRANK – “IT’S BEEN A TWO BAG NIGHT AND I’VE BEEN WALKING WITH MY DOG...” TRACEY startled, but grits her teeth, still focused on this delicate operation. As FRANK now starts to playfully rough house with ALFRED and at the same time serenading the dog. “ It’s been a hard day’s night and I’ve been walking with my dog..” TRACEY is quivering as she tries desperately to concentrate over her husband’s obnoxious braying. “SO WHEN I COME HOME TO YOU LOADED WITH POOH, YOU KNOW I FEEL ALRIGHT.” TRACEY can’t take it any longer. She snaps, swirling around viciously to FRANK, screaming, “SHUUUT UUUPPP!!!” Unfortunately, as she violently swings around, she accidently knocks over the rare, exotic potted orchid, which bursts on to the ground, breaking the then finely grafted stem. TRACEY stares down at the broken pot and orchid in absolute horror, becoming absolutely hysterical with a blinding rage, when suddenly as possessed by a deranged Dybbuk, TRACEY swings around with a half-crazed look on her face. She is now brandishing a pair of pruning shears, and then slowly, in measured steps, menacingly, starts to approach FRANK, threatening to cut his balls off. FRANK tells her that this would not be a very good time for bloodshed since they are expecting dinner guests and as far as cutting “his berries off,” he tells her, “Honey, you pruned them a long time ago.” The state of mind that TRACEY is now in, she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about “no stinkin’ party.” She was out for blood. “You want to party, Frank?” TRACEY picks up a potted plant and throws it at FRANK. He ducks the plant by an inch. TRACEY, “Let’s party!” TRACEY once again, picks up the pruning shears, with blood in her eye. She lunges at FRANK. FRANK darts for the back door of the house. As he reaches for the door handle, TRACEY throws the shears that whizzes past FRANK’S ear and sticks into the door. FRANK swings open the door and escapes within an inch of his life, slamming the door behind him, as TRACEY picks up a small potted plant and smashes it against the door, yelling after Frank, “PUSSY!!” TRACEY then picks up a claw hammer and yells to FRANK, “YOU’RE MINE NOW, YOU PUNK ASS LITTLE BITCH!!” TRACEY storms after him, clenching the claw hammer. BOBBY DUNLAP is a white Hip Hop wanna be gansta, but is way too stoned on dope to be “the real dope.” He is also the teenage son of FRANK AND TRACEY DUNLAP. BOBBY is in the midst of smoking some “really fine shit” as he sucks on a large Hookah, underneath a low lying canopy of marijuana smoke settling just over his head. BOBBY’S ROOM is a typical stoner pad with dark blue and red lighting along with an array of bubbly flashing lights strewn throughout the room, giving an impression of a psychedelic Christmas display. It is a cross between a Sheik’s Bedouin tent and a pimp’s ultimate wet dream. Of course none of this would be replete without the quintessential stoner anthem pump to the max; Led Zeppelin's, “Kashmir.” The door of BOBBY’S bedroom swings open, as FRANK flies in, hyperventilating, with fear and desperation. BOBBY is his last resort and he is desperate. He may not approve of BOBBY, but right now “he is da MAN,” and FRANK needs a connection real bad. He cuts real quick through the “ Daddy Knows Best Bullshit” asks, NO demands to know if he has any drugs, because as of now, FRANK is fully aware that he has to put down the wild cougar just outside the door. He pleads, he begs, “Please BOBBY… I need DRUGS!!” Of course BOBBY plays dumb until FRANK threatens him, “So help me, I’ll kill you in your sleep.” Believe it or not this whole scenario is nothing new to him. They have all gone through this before. We then hear TRACEY stomping towards the door, until we hear her heavy breathing just outside the door. TRACEY furiously bangs on BOBBY’S BEDROOM door. Then a blood curdling call of the wild, “HEEEERE’S JOOOHNNY!!” BOBBY, “Don’t tell me. She’s off her meds...” FRANK, “You could say that.” BOBBY then springs into action, lifting an Indian rug off the floor revealing a secret hatch door, which then opens exposing a safe. BOBBY gingerly, works the combination of the safe. FRANK looks down in bewilderment. The banging on the door increases to the point of the door breaking, while at the same time we hear the booming roar of TRACEY outside, “WENDY I’M HOME!” BOBBY scrambles to open the floor safe filled with every kind of drug imaginable. FRANK looks down at BOBBY’S treasure trove of pharmaceuticals as FRANK observes all of this with astonishment. “Good God, do you have your own drug cartel?” Which apparently he does, as TRACEY lets out another growl. BOBBY pulls out a zip lock plastic bag of pills and tosses it to FRANK. The banging stops and suddenly everything is quiet. To FRANK this is not good. When the Apache tom toms stops it only means that war is only imminent FRANK, “Wait, hold it. She stopped. She’s doing something. Why is it so quiet?” FRANK puts his ear to the door. From outside the door, in the near distance, we can hear the rattling of cutlery in the kitchen cabinet drawer. FRANK, “Oh, no! Not the carving knives!” BOBBY, “Not again”. BOBBY’S bedroom door cracks open just enough to enable BOBBY and FRANK to toss the bag of pills just outside the door. FRANK stoops down to peer through the keyhole. TRACEY storms towards the door, until we see nothing and then suddenly, a roar of what sounds like a wild mountain lion, slamming against the door with a mighty force, at the same time a long knife blade thrusts through the door, just above FRANK’S head. FRANK, “Shit.” BOBBY (Deflated.) “Man, that’s the second time she did that.” Outside there is a groaning, guttural sound coming from TRACEY, as we suspect that she has taken the bait. Next we hear the rustling of the zip lock bag accompanied by TRACEY’S heavy panting. Then there is a smacking sound of TRACEY snacking on the pills like they were Bon Bons. Now the only sound outside BOBBY’S door is the sound of sedated contentment, “Yummmm.” Between both FRANK and BOBBY, is a dual sigh of relief, knowing that she took the bait and it has taken its effect. FRANK peers through the key hole and through the aperture of the key hole we see TRACEY staggering away. The question is, what’s the next game plan or is there one? FRANK’S only strategy at this point is to wait, which to BOBBY is a whole new drag, to have his ol’ man hanging out in his crib. BOBBY tries to bullshit his way out of this one by telling FRANK that he has homework to do, which FRANK knows is a lie by simply taking in BOBBY’S pimp crib, with a haze of thick marijuana smoke and then at a rap video with half naked women, playing on BOBBY’S TV and then turning to BOBBY, with the nth degree of sarcasm, “Homework? You?” As time lapses, the marijuana smoke in BOBBY’S ROOM seems to be thicker. FRANK appears in a daze as he sits on the edge of BOBBY’S bed. FRANK is in a trance like state, fixated on a much more erotic Hip Hop video that’s now playing on BOBBY’S TV, and for good reason as we see a CLOSE UP on the black beauties bodacious, thonged buttocks, bouncing rhythmically to the pulsating Rap music. FRANK can’t turn away, until BOBBY snaps FRANK out of his stupor from all the second hand smoke, exclaiming. “that he thought he heard something.” He turns down the TV. They both put their ears to the door, but they can’t quite make out what she is up to. Both FRANK and BOBBY slowly opens the door and then tip toe out of hiding. The sound is coming from the kitchen, in which we hear a pleasant humming. FRANK and BOBBY peek into the kitchen as they both see to their amazement, TRACEY humming gleefully as she merrily multi-tasks around her kitchen, putting the final touches on various trays of hors d’oeuvres: to basting chicken, to primping a flower arrangement. Suddenly and magically, TRACEY has turned from Medusa to Martha Stewart on Prozac. TRACEY with an overly exaggerated smile painted on her face, warmly greets them. “Hey you two. Where have you two been? Mom needs some help with the couscous.” FRANK, still cautious and a bit skeptic, under his breath, as an aside to BOBBY, asks him, “How long until this shit wears off?” In which BOBBY replies, “I wouldn’t wait for desert. Well gotta go,” as he beats a hasty retreat with the pretext of walking ALFRED. FRANK immediately panics to the prospect of being left alone with this new Stepford Wife. It is the dinner party of all dinner parties and TRACEY DUNLAP is the life of the party. A crowded table of dinner guests, all of whom appear to be having a great time. At the head of the table is FRANK DUNLAP. Sitting next to FRANK is the renowned publisher of BROWN AND LESTER, MATHEW LESTER. Across from MATHEW is his wife DORIS LESTER. Also seated is LESTER’S chief editor, TONY BISHOP and his wife ALICE BISHOP. The party is a huge success and TRACEY, a whirling dervish is working the crowd like a well-oiled machine, firing on all cylinders. She is the belle of the ball as she serves her guests: Appetizers -- then one delicious, eye opening course after another --- along with non-stop pouring of fine wines and liqueurs -- all of which is accompanied by praise, laughter and general chorus of oooohhhs and aaahhhs. FRANK is amazed and delighted of his wife’s finesse, but at same time a little leery of her manic high, knowing full well that she could crash at any time. TRACEY is a hit! After a grand performance of both chef and server, there was just one more element of surprise. TRACEY walks in with a FLAMING DESERT. The dinner guests cheer her on. TRACEY set’s the desert tray down on the table to the accompaniment of her new adoring fan’s ooohhhs and aaahhhs and especially MATHEW LESTER, who has quickly become her biggest fan. MATHEW “My goodness, what do we have here?” TRACEY, “It’s my specialty. Cherry Flambé Jubilee.” But with TRACEY’S Jubilee, there seems to more flame than desert in which MATHEW exclaims, “Jubilee? Hell, that looks more like the 4th of July.” TRACEY somewhat miffed now at the miniature bonfire that she has created, which grows larger by the second, attempts to quell the flames by waving a table napkin over the desert, instead, only fanning the flames even higher, and at this point she has rapidly escalated to Mach 2 in mania, which comes to FRANKS attention almost immediately when he realizes that Mrs. Hyde has now taken over. FRANK now is struggling to main his own cool without freaking out. TRACEY now manic and angry, stomps out of the dining room, in which we hear a rumbling sound from the hallway closet. TRACEY then re-enters with a fire extinguisher and with a blast opens up hell’s fury on the once Flaming Cherry Jubilee. There is an awkward PAUSE as all dinner guests are stunned, except MATHEW who is “half in his cups.” He raises his glass to TRACEY. After a slight awkward PAUSE, the rest join in to follow suit as they, like MATHEW, raise their glasses. All, except FRANK who notices a considerable change in TRACEY’S demeanor. She is now angry, very angry. SHE’S BACK to her evil twin. FRANK now braces for the worst, but opts for a little brevity to ease the tension. “And what Cherry Jubilee would be replete without a little ammonium phosphate to top it off. There is a burst of laughter as TRACEY glares at FRANK which he immediately senses, and out of shear nervousness jumps further into the deep end. “Just pretend its Reddi Whip.” Everyone laughs as FRANK pours wine into the stretched out glasses while TRACEY is steaming, There a sense that she will explode at any minute. MATHEW LESTER, now slightly intoxicated and impervious to the show down between FRANK and TRACEY clinks his glass with a butter knife to get everyone’s attention. He wants to propose a toast. Perhaps it may be the wine talking, but MATHEW was so impressed with the dinner party and its hosts, that he is about to make the announcement that FRANK and TRACEY have waiting to hear and what the dinner party was ultimately about, MATHEW turns to both FRANK and TRACEY. “Frank, Tracey, it will be my pleasure and I would be honored if you both would.....“ At this perfect moment ALFRED bursts through the door, barking, followed by, BOBBY DUNLAP who is totally toasted. BOBBY is shirtless, wearing nothing but gym shorts. ALFRED runs straight towards MATHEW LESTER who turns to see what the commotion is, just as ALFRED dives his snout straight into MATHEW LESTER’s crotch. BOBBY, to MATHEW jokingly, “ don’t worry he is just sniffing for a little contraband,” as MATHEW blushes. BOBBY sniffs the air as if he were a connoisseur opening up a fine Merlot. BOBBY remarks that he can’t help but notice the pungent odor of the left over fumes, from TRACEY’S fire extinguisher. In his stoned haze he states with great authority that he recognizes the distinct smell to be none other than that of Malathion. Of course at this point FRANK is livid and his obvious objective is to get this drug addled lunatic out of the dining room, and taking the dog, ALFRED with him, but as FRANK is always inclined to do, he digs himself in deeper by asking “Professor” BOBBY, “ How in the hell do you know what Malathion smells like,” FRANK realizes soon after he opened his mouth what a stupid question it was, because in the world of BOBBY DUNLAP, inhaling Malathion might not be out of the ordinary. He also realizes at the same time he just made a poor error in judgment in asking this question, because in doing so, he just opened a Pandora’s Box in a stoner’s world and has given BOBBY a green light, Now BOBBY is out of the starting gate at full speed and there is no turning back as he gives the entire dinner party a long winded stoned dissertation on the pros and cons as well as the many uses of Malathion, from the hazard of causing Attention Deficit Disorder, (which to FRANK explains everything,) to the effectiveness that Malathion has on killing the eggs of adult lice. ALFRED has now moved behind BOBBY, sticking his head between BOBBY’S legs as BOBBY straddles the dog’s head between his legs, all of which now looks pretty obscene. BOBBY at this point is so stoned and he is now fading fast as he slowly and rhythmically strokes ALFRED’s long panting snout between his legs. It almost looks like he’s masturbating, which makes the rest of the dinner guests a little uncomfortable. BOBBY is so wasted that he is almost in a dreamlike state as he still continues to obscenely stroke ALFRED’s nose between his legs. BOBBY, while off on a dreamlike tangent on Malathion’s effect on lice, through the power of suggestion, he unconsciously scratches his groin above ALFRED’s head that is still tucked between his legs as if he and ALFRED may have lice. After concluding his long and spellbinding thesis on Malathion and its detrimental effect on killing the eggs of adult lice, the entire dinner table of guests just look at BOBBY like deer caught in headlights… until ALFRED the dog, lets out an unbelievably loud, elongated, protracted fart that seems to just drone on and on, enough to blow out all the candles on a centenarian’s birthday cake. The dinner guests recoil from the horrible fume, that ironically, is far worse than Malathion and the left over fumes from the ammonium phosphate of TRACEY’S fire extinguisher. FRANK blows a gasket and reads BOBBY the riot act. BOBBY can take a hint that this might be a good time to grab ALFRED and ride out of Dodge. FLASHFORWARD to FRANK DUNLAP and his friend TOM ALDREDGE at the bar, as FRANK explains his sorry story, that the dinner party from hell could only get worse. Why? “ Maybe because later TRACEY was on her fourth glass of wine and… oh yeah, that’s right… she was OFF HER MEDS!!” And suddenly the topic of sex ( or lack thereof,) reared its ugly head and once again we are off and running. FLASHBACK TO THE PARTY: Suddenly the evening has digressed into a re-enactment of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, but on crank, as we see FRANK and TRACEY, who both have had more than their share to drink, go for each other’s throats like a couple of rabid badgers in heat, all of which is being witnessed by their more gentile party guests, who now are captive spectators to this no holds barred fight. And what is this very private and now very public bloodletting about? You guessed it… SEX! However, this fight of the century is based on the usual grievances, one CAN’T stand having sex and the other isn’t getting enough, or in FRANK’S case, “a very long drought.” This is more information than the guests really need to know. There is one salvo after another fired across the dinner table, until FRANK hit’s a trip wire that sets of a major landmine in TRACEY that was so painful and hurtful. Something so horrifying that we dare not speak its name (but will anyway,) VAGINAL DRYNESS. The crowd cringes. This time FRANK has gone too far. This time he really hit below the belt. Literally. TRACEY explodes and threatens FRANK with divorce, right in front of everybody, including their once Golden Calf, MATHEW LESTER. In her state of hysteria she no longer cares. TRACEY screams at FRANK, telling him that she no long cares about the HOUSE AND GARDEN or anything else. He can keep everything… even that God Damn Salad Shooter that he gave her for Christmas, “cheap son-of-a-bitch!” Now, the dinner guests are truly afraid of what TRACEY might do next and rightfully so. TRACEY, jumps up from the dinner table and runs into the kitchen where she can be heard rummaging frenetically through the kitchen cabinets. The sound of pots and pans crashing on the floor can be heard. TRACEY bursts into the room like Al Pacino in Scarface, with both hands bracing the Salad Shooter. TRACEY, “Say hello to my little friend.” She points and aims the Salad Shooter and lets out a fuselage of salad on EVERYONE, in slo-mo as if it were a Peckinpah movie. Due to TOM’s huge girth, both he and FRANK are squeezed tightly together, in TOM’s old rusty, beat up, vintage 1967 Porsche Carrera convertible, with the top down, tooling down the PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY. At first glance, it’s as if we were watching a scene straight out of LAUREL and HARDY. To compete with the overly loud engine, an equally loud broken muffler and the roar of the passing traffic, TOM and FRANK have to yell. TOM yelling to FRANK that he can stay at his place as long as he likes but there one thing that he needs to know. “It’s kind of been a little secret of mind…” TOM ALDREDGE’S HOME FRANK stares up at a mountain of junk. In fact, the entire house is one never ending labyrinth of junk stretched to the ceiling, a virtual landfill stuck inside a home. FRANK in total shock, dumbfounded, turns to TOM, “ You’re a... hoarder. THAT’S your little secret. You mean I’m not going to find Jimmy Hoffa buried under the New York Times am I?” The next morning, we journey though the nooks and crannies, throughout the canyons of mile high junk, until we see FRANK, wedged in a crevice of garbage, papers, boxes and junk. He is immediately awakened by a pungent odor. He looks around for the source of the foul stench until he spots a tuft of fur protruding from under a stack of boxes. FRANK tugs on the piece of fur and out comes what appears to be road kill; a flattened desiccated mangled carcass of a dead cat. FRANK, while dangling the dead cat in the air, has a look of stunned horror, as TOM ENTERS. “Oh, there it is.” FRANK who is stunned. “There it is?” TOM, “Roger, the neighbor’s cat. He’s been missing for a couple of months. I guess he snuck in. (BEAT) Shame. You hungry? This is a no brainer. FRANK realizes he has to go. No way can he stay here. DUH! FRANK checks into a seedy hotel room. It’ the kind of motel that is kind of okay as long as you don’t spray the bed sheets with Luminol. Despondent, FRANK, is at the end of his rope. Reflecting on the recent events in his life, it has become very clear to him that his life has gone from Vanity Fair to Les Miserable. He has hit an all-time low, sitting on the edge of his motel room bed, swigging Jim Bean from the bottle. To get his mind off his troubles, he turns on the motel TV and proceeds to channel surf, which there is porn on every other channel. This depresses him even more, until he stumbles on MATHEW LESTER’S HOME NETWORK Channel, On the television screen we see a young couple on the HOME NETWORK, showcasing their beautiful, stylish home. It becomes obvious they are a younger (and even more vanilla version) of FRANK and TRACEY. FRANK at this point totally caves in. It’s too much for him. He can only stare at the young pretty couple on the television screen. “ Who are these people?”