[Roberta’s has been packed most nights since the two-star Times review, and now when you wait in line you can often hear people talking about the review and what a shame it is that it's so crowded.]
Person in Front of Us: Yeah, OK fine, it’s great that it’s getting so much business, hooray money, but what about the people who like ate there for a year before anyone knew about it and made it what it is? Thanks for treating us like shit, Roberta’s. There the… you know, a band… what band would work? The U2 of restaurants. Or like the Goo Goo Dolls of restaurants. I used to come here every weekend for brunch, but am I going to wait an hour to eat food I could make myself if I weren’t so effing lazy? Fuck no. No thank you. I’ll stay at home and starve. And then get food delivered when I’m done starving.
[It’s Ann, Z, and me, and we’re four people from the door. Z says, It’s retarded how cold it is. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look back to see the Professor and Bill Murray. The Professor says “Hi kids!” and Bill Murray says:]
Bill Murray: Cold hands, hot pizza! Pizza pie, hot food! I’ma eat all the pies tonight.
Me: Nice to see you, too, Bill.
Bill Murray: Feel my hands. They’re frozen. Don’t squeeze those paws too hard, they’ll shatter. Ice cube paws! Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to get inside ASAP. I’m going to sit down. I’m going order two hot boozey drinks. One Irish coffee for me; one hot toddy for this hot slut Professor. If they don’t have booze, I’ll get a coffee and fill it with hooch from my flask. [he shows us his flask] No one talk to me when I drink! I need to warm up in silence before I talk to anyone. When the girl comes to take our order, I’ll say, Whatever the chef recommends. I want the best pie and the best meat. I’m the best boy tonight. Two pizza pies, two ducks, one beefy whatever and a sausage calzone. And two beers. And two more beers for my hot slut girlfriend. That’s my order. Aw shit, it’ll be good. Shit! That’s right! After I eat I will fill the toilet with so much hot shit that Roberta’s will stop being famous for its food and start being famous for the biblical pile of shit I left there. They’ll try to flush it down, but they won’t be able to. It’ll be too much. Too much for the fire department! It will be like a nursery rhyme: They tried and tried / to flush the shit down / but Bill Murray’s brown / was too much for Brooklyntown. / They called in the cops / they called in the priest / but no man could deal / with this poopy beast. / Children came to gawk / all work in Brooklyn stopped. / The Empire State’s hue / was changed to one that looked like poo. So, brown, I suppose / to commemorate all the food / that he pooed / the tale of Bill’s shit / will soon be a hit. Who’s writing this down? Professor, pen and paper immediately!
The Professor: He’s such a talent. This is why I’m with him. For the poo poems. The man jumps into verse any time he goes to the toilet. Let another one rip, Bill.
Bill Murray: Tonight I ate duck / and then had a fuck. / After I fucked her / I was all tuckered / Out. And then to the can I ran / for the urge to purge / was a sudden one / it’s never any fun / to shit on the run / but after lots of duck / and a multi-posish fuck / I find myself under the gun. / All that fucking / will move that duckling / down to your guts / and out it will put putt / from your butt.
The Professor: He’s amazing. Now my ex… that man could not a make rhyme. That’s why it didn’t work out. I need a rhymer.
Bill Murray: She needs a rhymer / I need a rimmer / I need a woman / who’s a little bit slimmer / she needs a grinner / I need a sinner / who will rim me after dinner / she needs a bear / I need a cold stare / and a lick right there / in my derriere! Bingo, bango, print it! Next poem!
The Professor: He’s a genius!
Bill Murray: Genius Bill / never got his fill / of pills / and girls from the Hills / so he drove to Mulholland in his DeVille / and wrangled an old starlet who was planting flowers / outside her bungalow and / drove her to the Roosevelt Hotel and got a room, 503 it was, we ordered room service, whiskey and an omelet / she took lots of painkillers / she was at least 60 and had been in a movie with Bob Hope, and then we humped while The Price Is Right played on the TV. / She couldn’t do any cool posishes because of her bad back. / But believe me, she was a wild little bitch. / She bites, she fights, and keeps it tight from never having kids, / and her mouth was so big she could have fit three of my cocks in there, plus six balls / she gave me her number and said call me, I need you in my life right now. / I’m very lonely. / Old childless actresses are the loneliest West Coast birds.
The Professor: And did you call her?
Bill Murray: Six times.
The Professor: That’s a surprise. I’m proud of you.
Bill Murray: Each time I said something like: Two tickets to bonetown / old ladies on the bus! / old ladies gussy up your sad old rumps! / Bill’s here with his hump bus / what’s with all the fuss? / Why spend all night trying to suss / this out. It’s not rocket surgery / Get on the bus, you lout. / And don’t pout, it makes you look older. “Hump Bus”! That’s a poem.
The Professor: Your best ever!
Bill Murray: Wrong. My best ever is about you. The one that compares you to that ratty old director’s chair I used on the set of Caddyshack. Remember? I emailed it to you two years ago from Hawaii. Frayed, she stayed / I paid, I lied / she sighed / Of all the chairs on this set / you’re the one I get? / I deserve to stand / like a gaffer / I received a beautiful seat / I will cherish my seat foriv / As long as I live / please give / me another shot / remove from my haught / the shiv.
The Professor: Oh William!
Bill Murray: Let’s eat, you hot slut.
[A girl from Roberta’s comes out and pulls Bill Murray and the Professor inside.]
Ann: They can go in? I work here!