From the video description:
It’s been weeks since anyone’s seen Nick around the studio or the strip club. Theories about his whereabouts abound but it falls to Atlanta to solve the mystery of whatever happened to her best client.
Nick and Sally’s commentary:
“Brilliant, Sally! I bet that bloody mick never suspected you were going to rub him down with poison ivy essential oil!”
“Poison ivy oil? Oh… um… [nervous laughter] right, Mr. White. He… um… he sure didn’t.”
“Good girl! Serves him right for getting his stupid autobiography finished and on the bestseller list before mine.”
“Er… yes, Mr. White.”
“Speaking of which, have you finished mine yet?”
“Oh, um… no, Mr. White. I’m still working on it.”
“Alright, have it done by Friday.”
“I’ll try my best, Mr. White.”
“By the way, love: do you have any of that poison ivy oil left?”
“Huh? Oh… um… no, Mr. White.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“Well… I… um… I don’t… um…”
“I think it would be jolly good fun to swap Mrs. White‘s massage oil with some of that for the next time she has a session with that personal trainer of hers.”
“Oh, well, I’ll see what I can whip up this afternoon, Mr. White.”
I used an instrumental mix of a track from my back catalog from my old maQLu project called “Au Revoir, Goodbye Little Whore.” I can’t remember if I have it up anywhere as a free download currently as I was unsatisfied with the original lyrics and wanted to redo the song, but there’s a bunch of other free maQLu downloads available.
Transcript (ie, spoiler alert)
[Titling: “Late June”]
(We see Joanne White standing in the strippers’ changeroom at Lucky Luigi’s. Nick is passed out facedown in the corner of the room.)
JOANNE (to herself): You just had to turn Nikki Sixx down, huh, Jojo?
(Joanne grabs Nick by the ankles and begins to drag him—still face-down—out of the strip club.)
JOANNE (continued): You were too good to marry a man with knuckle tattoos. Picky, picky, picky… and now look at yourself, Jojo: dragging your drunk-ass idiot husband home at 7am yet again. Fuck…
(We now see Joanne driving Nick’s Ferrari convertible. Nick is in the passenger seat, upside down with his head in the footwell and his feet sticking up out into the sky.)
JOANNE (still ranting to herself): That little Courtney Sixx bitch doesn’t have to drag her comatose husband out of filthy titty bars, he can walk out on his own. But nope. I didn’t want a man with stupid tattoos so here I am with a man who’s just plain stupid. Goddamn it.
[Titling: “Late October”]
ATLANTA: Dude, have you seen Nick lately?
ATLANTA: Nick from next door? The rock star?
PARIS: The gross old geezer who always bitches that my boobs are too small?
ATLANTA: Yeah, man. He’s my best client.
PARIS: I hope he’s dead.
ATLANTA: Hey, you guys seen Nick lately?
PÁDRAIG: Naw… maybe the IRA finally got around to blowing him up like they promised to in the ’80s.
BETTY: IRA, IRS: whoever was available. I hope they made it slow and painful.
ATLANTA: Ugh. You guys…
ATLANTA: Hey, man, you seen Nick around?
RICHARD: Not for weeks. I’m the king of the studio now! Well, except Martin still won’t let me in his mix room. Y’know, Nick’s probably just banging whores in his office like usual.
JASON: Nope, he’s not in there. No fresh jizz splatters lately, eh? Call the yacht club.
ATLANTA: I did, man. They told me never to speak his name again and hung up.
(Cut to Atlanta inside Martin’s mix room. Martin is sitting on the sofa at the back of the room, drinking beer with Bono.)
ATLANTA: Hey, Martin, you seen Nick lately?
MARTIN: Ain’t he in the local drunk tank?
BONO: Did you check the Betty Ford Clinic? He practically lives there.
(Sally enters, wearing a pink swimsuit and bunny ears and carrying a towel and a bottle of massage oil.)
SALLY: Alright, Mr. Hewson, are you ready for—
(Sally sees Atlanta and gasps.)
SALLY (continued): Atlanta! Hi! Um… I was just, um, getting ready to go to my aquasize class at the Y. I mean, I… I wasn’t about to offer Mr. Hewson a full body oil rubdown or anything improper like that. Certainly not.
ATLANTA: Whatever, man. Where’s Nick?
SALLY: Nick? Oh, uh… right, Mr. White. Um… he’s away on tour.
(Sally puts the towel down on the edge of the sofa and puts the bottle of oil between Bono’s thighs.)
ATLANTA: But there’s no tour dates on his website!
SALLY: Oh. Well… I’m sure Mrs. White would know where he’s at, you should pop by the house and ask her.
(Sally puts her hands on Atlanta’s back and starts shoving her out of the mix room.)
SALLY: Uh… Bye, Atlanta, run along now.
(Sally returns alone and leans over Bono, pawing at him. Martin pays no attention to any of this.)
SALLY: Why don’t we go into the office? We can do it on Nick’s desk.
[Doorbell – a loud, obnoxious, and heavily distorted doorbell sound.]
(We are now in front of Nick’s front door. His house is one of those modernist monstrosities, an overpriced giant white stucco box with a red double front door, 3 narrow vertical windows to one side, and a large cement landing complete with two large potted topiaries and the obligatory statue of Buddha. Atlanta is standing with a crate full of baggies of weed at her feet. Joanne answers the door.)
ATLANTA: Hey, Mrs. White. Is Nick here? I have, like, a couple months’ worth of weed for him.
JOANNE: He’s passed out in the bedroom. Now fuck off, I’m busy with my personal trainer downstairs.
(As Joanne tells Atlanta to fuck off, the camera pans to the Buddha.)
ATLANTA: Cool, man.
(Cut to Nick and Joanne’s bedroom. Nick is passed out face-down and topless on his side of the bed. There is a mess of clothes, porno mags, and a giant jug of Kraken rum on the floor next to him.)
ATLANTA: Whoa… eh, nothing a little reiki can’t fix.
(Atlanta places crystals along Nick’s spine, roughly in line with his chakras, and holds her hands out over him and begins to chant.)
ATLANTA (chanting): Lam vam ram yam ham aum…
(Nick coughs and props himself up on his elbows, still face-down.)
ATLANTA (chanting as Nick continues to cough): Lam vam ram yam ham aum…
(Nick rolls over and sits up in bed, facing her and bleary-eyed.)
NICK: Huh… oh, hello, love. I didn’t know strippers made house calls.
ATLANTA: We haven’t seen you in weeks.
(Nick puts his hands behind his head, satisfied, and leans back.)
NICK: Really? I must have blacked out. That was one splendid party!
(He Lays back down again but propped up on one elbow and facing her. He pats the bed next to him.)
NICK: Uh… since you’re here, sugar… c’mere.
(Atlanta doesn’t move from her position standing next to the bed and raises her hand in a dismissive gesture.)
ATLANTA: Naw, man, I have a boyfriend!
NICK: So? I have an insufferable wife.
(We hear Joanne screaming orgasmically from downstairs. Nick and Atlanta both turn their heads towards the noise.)
JOANNE (off-screen): Ja ja ja! Oh my God! Hans!!!! Jaaaaaaaaa!
NICK: Shit. She’s home. Well, come on now, there’s no time to waste. Hop in so I can hop on!
ATLANTA: Naw, I just came to bring you your weed, dude.
(She gestures to the crate of weed, now at the foot of the bed on the floor.)
NICK: Ugh… Alright, love, uh… put it over there next to the, uh, porno mags.
ATLANTA: Uh uh. Pay up first.
(She holds out her hand, palm-up, in the universal “gimme the money” gesture, and turns away from him.)
NICK: Pfft! Well… Go get it out of Mrs. White’s purse.
(He gestures to Joanne’s pink purse on her bedside table. Atlanta walks over to it and opens it to fetch the money. Nick comes over to try to nuzzle up to Atlanta and she slaps him. He lands back on the bed and props himself up on his elbows facing her.)
NICK: Alright, darling, you can be on top.
(She turns her nose up at him and waves dismissively.)
ATLANTA: Naw, man: see you at the club!
(Nick props himself up on one elbow again.)
NICK: Oh, I don’t know. I like this house call business so much better. Why would I want to sit in traffic and drive across town for it?
(Atlanta is standing at the foot of the bed with her back turned to Nick. She looks over her shoulder at him.)
ATLANTA: Because Betty’s enjoying your absence too much?
(Nick sits in the middle of the bed and shrugs as Atlanta turns to face him.)
NICK: Oh, who cares what that old slut thinks?
ATLANTA: Because Richard is acting like he owns your studio now?
(Nick leans back with his hands behind his head.)
NICK: Well, then he’ll be happy to pay the obscene property taxes.
(Atlanta groans, turns away from Nick, and flings her arm in the air in annoyance.)
ATLANTA: Ugh… Because Martin invited Bono over to hang out and drink your beer?
(Nick springs up, kneels on the foot of the bed, and grabs Atlanta’s shoulders.)
(He then jumps up and starts pulling his shirt on.)
NICK: Over my dead body!!! Where’s my keys?!?
(Nick storms out. Atlanta sits on the foot of the bed and takes a hit from a joint as she sighs in relief.)
ATLANTA: Ah… back to normal.