From the video description:
It’s that time of year again, when Nick and Joanne pretend like they’re actually gonna try to get along and communicate. For realsies this time. Just like every other year.
(Meanwhile their marriage counsellor is probably thinking he should have opened a surf shop in Stoner Beach instead of getting his degree… just like every other year…)
Nick and Sally’s commentary:
“Was it a productive counselling session, Mr. White?”
“Oh God, no, love. It was an hour of Mrs. White sitting around talking about herself and complaining… and if that wasn’t bad enough, at the end of it I had to pay the dork in the glasses $250.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Ugh… If I wanted to hear a vapid narcissist talk about themselves, I’d go hang out at the Rainbow Bar and Grill in Los Angeles where all my idiot rockstar friends hold court. At least then I’d be drunk.”
“Yes, Mr. White.”
“And there’d be loads of cocaine to pass the time til they shut up so I could talk about myself for the rest of the night.”
“Yes, Mr. White.”
“Bloody Sebastian Bach keeps talking about the time he was on the cover of Rolling Stone in gold leather pants. Pfft! Well who wasn’t on the cover of Rolling Stone in leather pants back in the day?”
“Yes, Mr. White.”
“Quit interrupting, Sally.”
“OK, 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)
(We are in the Whites’ living room, where Joanne is sitting on the sofa and Nick and the counsellor are sitting on uncomfortable looking chairs.)
COUNSELLOR: So… is there anything you two agree on?
NICK: Yes, of course!
JOANNE: Like what?
NICK: Well, we both hate that vile old hag Mrs. Wright across the street with her disgusting poodle that she lets run wild shitting on everyone’s yard.
COUNSELLOR: Ok, well, that’s progress.
JOANNE: That doesn’t count! Who gives a shit about her stupid dog?
NICK: You were complaining about her just yesterday.
JOANNE: No, I wasn’t!
NICK: Yes, you were! You stomped into the house hollering about how that filthy animal left his shit all over the place again and you just can’t take it anymore.
JOANNE: I was referring to you! You brought parts of your stupid yacht’s greasy engine and piled them up on my new dining room table!
NICK: Me? I’m not filthy! Why, I got showered in champagne at the boobie bar on Friday night! And the yacht club tossed me into the harbour that very morning when I brought home my engine bits.
JOANNE: God forbid they tie something nice and heavy around your neck to keep you down in Davy’s locker.
COUNSELLOR: OK, OK, OK. So, Joanne, what I’m hearing is you’re upset by Nick making a mess on your furniture.
NICK: Oh, I really don’t see what the problem is. If she would just fulfill her wifely duties and clean up the mess, it wouldn’t be there anymore.
COUNSELLOR: Um, OK. Or you could just not make the mess.
NICK: It’s my God-given right as a man to make a mess in my own damn house that I pay for!
COUNSELLOR: Well, um… but it upsets Joanne.
JOANNE: And that’s another thing. He refuses to remember my name!
NICK: I do too remember your name. You’re Mrs. White the Third.
JOANNE: You don’t remember my actual name!
NICK: Why should I? The lawyers need to know that sort of thing, not me.
JOANNE: Yeah, when he’s getting ready to read out your will!
COUNSELLOR: OK, OK, OK, let’s try a different approach: why do you two stay together?
NICK: Oh, I hate writing alimony cheques.
JOANNE: What alimony, you cheap fuck?
NICK: Don’t whine, love. You’re the one who signed that prenup.
COUNSELLOR: Well, I mean, if you agreed to—
JOANNE: Shut up! I was young, I was dumb, I was convinced he was gonna be dead within the year from an OD or a car wreck or liver failure! How was I supposed to know he’s a coked out unkillable quasi-human cockroach?
NICK: That’s right, darling. I’m immortal. Thank the centuries of good breeding of English aristocractic stock!
JOANNE: Who knew immortality was the kind of mutation you get from centuries of inbred cousins fucking?
NICK: Well, of course, darling. Why do you think Her Majesty lasted so long?
JOANNE: I was under the impression it involved adrenochrome.
NICK: Pfft! Adrenochrome… that’s just an insane conspiracy theory from jealous peasants. The real secret is noble breeding… along with six Dubonnet and gins every day. Speaking of which, go fetch me one.