“Sex and Death to the Bourgeois Pigs” (2004)

Straight-up TV parody. Written for a politcal sketch show which shall remain nameless.

– – – – – –


CARRIE (Sarah J. Parker) and SAMANTHA (Kim Catrall, the slutty one) are having lunch.

So I’m fucking him, and the Fed Ex
guy comes in with the new vibrators
I ordered, so I start fucking both
of them, and then the neighbors
call the cops to complain about the
noise and these two big NYPD studs
come in and-

Suddenly CHARLOTTE (the prissy one) runs up, out of breath and panicked.

Oh my God, you guys, it’s Miranda,
she… She…

Slow down honey, and tell us what
happened. It can’t be that bad. Did
you two have another fight about
how you’re more interested in
pleasing your man that doing what’s
right for you as a woman?

No, she… She…

Did her cynical wisecracks become
too much for your naive conception
of modern life in a crazy city like
New York again?

No- she was murdered by a rampaging
mob of Marxists!


All of a sudden these… People,
they were everywhere. It was
horrible- all this olive

I know. The “Military surplus” look
is so four years ago.

And then, they threw everyone out
of the Hamptons Jitney and Miranda
tried to get all lovably sassy with
them and use her cynicism that she
always uses to hide her true
vulnerability but then they threw
her down in the street and ran her
over with the Jitney!
She was still being sardonically
vulnerable when they reversed and
ran her over again!

The noise of a mob of rampaging Marxists starts to grow offstage.

You guys, they’re coming- we have
to get out of here!

The girls get up to flee as the Marxist mob enters. They catch Charlotte and Samantha, throw them down and kick and beat them, dragging them offstage.

Carrie escapes offstage, followed by the mob.


She re-enters from the other side of the stage, slamming the door of her “apartment” [the stage entrance] behind her.

The mob can be heard offstage, beating on the door and demanding her blood.

When I got home, there was a
message from Big on my machine-
being his usual, infuriating self.

She presses the button and the message plays:

BIG (V.O.)
(with sounds of heavy
combat in the background)
Carrie, it’s me. I know we made
plans tonight but I’m held up at
work. There’s some kind of
communist mob outside, calling me a
“capitalist plutocrat” and
demanding my blood. I’m not going
to make dinner, but if my private
army can fight its way to the
heliport down by the Hudson, I
might be able to meet you for a
drink later on at Bungalow Eight.

Would I ever learn- I had spent
years waiting for Big to come to my
rescue, and it just wasn’t going to
happen. He might command a ruthless
Kevlar-vested quasi-legal security
force, but he was never going to be
my knight in shining armor.

The mob breaks down the door, picks up Carrie’s shoe collection and attacks her to with them.

As the drably-attired mob prepared
to pummel me to death with my own
nine-hundred-dollar Manolo Blahnik
stilettos, I wondered, did they
have a point? Was the machinery of
capitalism really oiled with the
blood of the workers, and if so, do
they at least get a box of orange
juice and a little cookie
afterwards? Was olive camouflage
the new black?
And in a city like New York, with
millions living below the poverty
line, had our unbridled contempt
for the common people all these
years been an uncommonly large

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