Phil and Rosco Discuss the Culinary Arts

Phil and Rosco are in the car.  They are drunk, but somehow driving safely.  

PHIL:  Is there any bar in this town that we’re not banned from?  This is a bustling city; there should be new ones popping up all over the place.

ROSCO:  I know.  We have to wait until the school year ends.


PHIL:  What?

ROSCO:  Think about it –  a bunch of college kids, just graduated, think they’re all the shit and looking to start their own bar because they know how to run it better.

PHIL: (chuckles) Because they’re tired of paying high prices for watered drinks on club night.  Idiots.

ROSCO:  Exactly.  Fools don’t know that Tuesday is the day to go drinking.

PHIL:  Why do I feel like we’re in a Quentin Tarantino film?

ROSCO:  (pointing) Ooooo!  Let’s get Little Ceasar’s!


Phil and Rosco are now eating a pizza and breadsticks.  Rosco is dipping breadsticks in a tiny plastic cup of marinara sauce and having difficulty because the car is bumping around.

ROSCO:  I still don’t get it.

PHIL:  Two guys in a car talking about food.  Straight out of Pulp Fiction.

Rosco spills marinara on his shirt.

ROSCO:   Dammit, they need to get rid of these little plastic cups.  They need to give us some professional shit.

PHIL:  Huh?

ROSCO:  You know, those little ceramic dishes that you always see on the Food Network filled with onion soup or something.

PHIL:  You mean bowls?

ROSCO:  No, not bowls.  They have a more –

PHIL:  Not bowls?

ROSCO:  No!  Not bowls.  They have a more exact name, a more specific name.

PHIL:  A scientific name for a bowl?

ROSCO:  Why are you dumber than me when you’re drunk?

PHIL:  Shhhhh!  Don’t say that while I’m driving, you’ll jinx us.

ROSCO:   Oh please, like a cop is going to pull us over in this part of town.

A police car flashes its lights and whoops its siren.  Phil pulls the car over, and looks at Rosco.

PHIL:  You son of a bitch.

One hour later.  Phil and Rosco are in jail, being kept in separate cells.  Each of their arms are hanging out of the bars.  Pause.

PHIL:  Ramekins?

Rosco’s clenches one of his hands in a triumphant fist.



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