(Foreigner's 'Cold as Ice' plays over opening credits and voiceover)

Living in Houston I was accustomed to miserable heat and humidity but I was, like every other Houstonian, very unaccustomed to our current plight of bitter cold. My power was off and my water pipes were as frigid as Gwyneth Paltrow's pussy. Cabin fever was my only source of heat. 

Coupled with the depressing Covid lockdown, a contentious election, and discovering my latest girlfriend was a game player of Biblical proportions, I was an emotional wreck.

I should have suspected her since her name is Parker Brothers. She felt she had a Monopoly on my heart but I didn't need a Ouija Board to know our relationship was at Risk. It was so toxic we have matching skull and crossbones tramp stamps.

When she left for Sweden to accept the Nobel Prize for Lying I knew it was time to move on. Still, it saddened me. She wielded a feeldoe like Picasso used a paintbrush. Our long-term relationship had been two of the happiest days of my life. 

Despite that, I still cared about her even if I did seek my Old Testament vengeance. They say "Revenge is a dish best served cold." My mistake was serving it in a crockpot which made my revenge tender and delicious. 

The combination of pandemic and weather was having disastrous effects on my income; adding to my acute depression. Like the current temperature, my bank balance was in single digits.

Thankfully, depression led me to spend my days in bed. At three PM my alarm went off. I dejectedly rose, discovering more horrific news. Just as I sat on my Lazy Girl recliner to smoke a bowl of weed I sadly realized my stash was as empty as Parker's promises.

During the night a mouse had chewed through the baggie and helped itself to my treasured herb. Then, with rampant munchies,  it emptied my Funyans too. Now I had a stoned rodent with bad breath roaming my domicile. I would set a trap if I could afford cheese, but Jeff Bezos I ain't. I'm barely Jeff Dunham. 

Luckily, I had one refill left on my pain meds. I grabbed the spare change scored at last night's Phish concert and began my long walk to the 'Opioid Outlet' pharmacy. Along the way, I reflected on my unfaithful ex. Her smile was as heartwarming as a baby's giggle but most importantly her tongue was long and talented. I would sit for hours watching her braid her brunette locks using only her tongue. 

Those thoughts were warming my bearded clam making me hornier than Pepe Le Pew on the Champs-Elysees. 

Finally arriving at the pharmacy located in the trunk of an '82 Chevy Vega I noticed a Houston Chronicle newspaper box frozen open. Grabbing a handful I scanned the classifieds hoping Sandra Bullock was looking for a roommate. She wasn't.

"What's all this then," I exclaimed in my best British accent. 

What caught my attention was an ad:  "Seeking amateur women for Naked Truth casting audition. Up to four-hundred-dollars if qualified" Casting? They pay four-hundred bucks to teach me to fish? 

For that kind of money, I'll catch Free Willy with a cane pole. What kind of fishing could they do in this ungodly weather anyway; ice fishing for Mrs. Paul's frozen fish sticks?

I promptly called the included number where a friendly Naked Truth rep answered, correcting my misconceptions. Instead of fishing, they were trolling for fresh faces for adult cinema; or 'skin flicks' as they're called in high society. Since financial desperation can turn a saint into a whore I signed up. It was my fifth bad decision of today; well beneath my average.

"What's your name?" she asked pleasantly

"Bertha Ipock," I replied.

"Oh no, that will never do! You need a name that generates raw sexuality. Like 'Beef Jerky' for instance. Let me see what's available." After a brief pause, she returned. "Rita Rectum is sadly taken but we do have Gloria Gaping available. They will be waiting for you at the audition, Ms. Gaping." She then gave me directions to the office in a West Houston trailer park.

Needing to bolster my nerves I bought my Percocets and washed them down with a bottle of cheap vodka. The destination was within walking distance if one enjoyed exercise. Which this one doesn't.  Instead I 'borrowed' the only snow sled ever sold in H-town from a bawling toddler and went zipping down the hill like a scene from Cool Running. 

Exhilarated I arrived at Naked Truth HQ. In a pretentious display of class the company's name was written in crayon on yellow construction paper then taped to the trailer's door. Climbing two broken steps, I entered the door with a broken hinge. (Wasn't that a Hardy Boys novel?) 

Inside I was greeted by some dude looking like a down-on-his-luck George 'Goober' Lindsey. Continuing the class motif he was wearing a pale-blue leisure suit.

In an accent reminiscent of Foghorn Leghorn he said, "Y'all come on in here. It's as cold as a well-digger's ass ain't it, y'all? You must be Gaping?"

"Not yet," I quipped nervously. He guffawed.

"If you ain't funnier than Larry the Cable Guy!" Was that meant as a compliment?  He continued, "I'm Cal Zone, proprietor of Naked Truth. Sorry for the mess but we've been busier than a one-legged man in a derriere-kicking contest if you'll pardon my French. I was just fixin' to eat my dinner. I'm having pulled pork, cornpone, french-fried taters, and coleslaw; all washed down with a gallon of sweet tea. For dessert, it's a moon pie smothered in sausage gravy. Are you hankerin fer some?"

"No thank you. My doctor has me on a strict non-hillbilly diet." 

"Goldurn, ya'll make me happier than a boll weevil in a cotton field but lay off the jokes. You're gonna make me piss my pants...again. Why don't you park it over yonder while I eat."

I began walking to the faded chair before his desk when he stopped me; fastening a collar around my neck. Not a BDSM thing. It was a flea collar to ward off the chair's plentiful parasites. Sitting while he clogged his arteries I surveyed his less-than-impressive shag carpet office. 

Behind him, impossible to miss, hung an enormous Confederate flag. I cringed but maybe he was just a Lynyrd Skynyrd fan. 'Freebird'  makes me forgive a lot.

Once finished eating and belching 'Dixie' he said, "Before we continue I have an observation; lose that little mustache. You look like Freddy Mercury."

"You're putting me under pressure," I replied.

"From where I sit I was thinking Fat Bottomed Girl."

"Listen you slack-jawed yokel, I didn't come here to be humiliated," I snapped back.

"Too bad. Humiliation porn pays double."

"My butt is kinda fat, isn't it? And my cankles ain't no bargain either."

He asked, "Have you acted before?"

Proudly I informed the hayseed I had my SAG card. Unimpressed, he scowled, "Here we're only interested if your titties don't sag." Then picking up paperwork he began questioning. "First question: how do you stand on giving six or seven blowjobs consecutively?"

"I probably wouldn't stand at all. Most likely I'd kneel. Seriously, call me old-fashioned but I'm not interested in that scenario at all."

Writing on his tablet he looked up saying, "That's too bad. We're casting the Naughty Annie biopic and since blowjobs are integral to the plot your answer disqualifies you. Sorry. Next: how old are you?"

"Forty."

"Forty!! God damn, it's great meeting you Methuselah," he continued while offering his Greasy hand

"Forty isn't old!"

"Forty is a hundred-sixty in porn years. Let's move on. Have you ever masturbated in front of a group?"

"Do family reunions count?" 

He beamed saying, "I like you. You're kinkier than a fifty-cent garden hose." He then lightly tapped his lavish Bic pen on his desk which promptly collapsed at our feet. "Fuckin' Ikea," he mumbled. "Let's move over to the casting couch."

Looking at the couch I chose to remain standing since it appeared home to more fungi than a petri dish. He resumed his questions. "How do you feel about hot girl-on-girl action?"

"Do I pay you four-hundred-bucks for that?" He laughed again; his beer-gut jiggling. "I love a woman with a sense of humor. Except that Ellen DeGeneres after she spurned my advances at the White Castle.  But you have spunk. Speaking of spunk, do you swallow?"

"Only my pride when I came here."

At that point, an effeminate man walked past us into a closed area. As the door swung open I heard a man inside say, "Desirae, no one can fuck a dildo that big (followed by a piercing scream). I stand corrected."

I asked Mr. Zone who the flamboyant man was. "That's Percy. He's our Fluffer."

"What's a fluffer?"

"He keeps the male actors aroused between takes using any means imaginable and some unimaginable."

Curiously, I asked, "What do you call someone who keeps the female aroused?"

"A jeweler," he replied straight-faced. "Now come with me to where the magic happens." We walked into a very low-budget movie set. No camera, they were filming on flip phones.  I was surrounded by more deviant behavior than a Caligula yard sale. Schlongs were everywhere, swinging like metronomes.  

Toned beauties were standing, kneeling, bending, even dangling from chandeliers with each orifice being penetrated simultaneously. One area was separated by a velvet rope with a sign: "Gangbang line starts here. Approximate wait time: one hour." 

There was a ruler available with additional instructions: "You must be this big to ride." At the other end sat a sad-looking buxom redhead. A woman obviously regretting each foolish decision in her wretched life.

Zone lead me to wardrobe; handing me a frumpy dress and a cheap wig the color of dryer lint. "Due to your advancing years, you will be perfect for our next epic, 'Old Wives Tail.' Try it on for your screen test.

With dress and wig in place, I glanced at a cracked mirror. Surprised and saddened to see I looked like Sophia from Golden Girls. At least I didn't have Bea Arthur's huge cock!  The boss then grabbed my arm leading me to a gorgeous nude blonde bent over a desk with her ass positioned directly in front of my face. Luckily I brought a bib.

Handing me a birch cane, he explained the scene. "You are a headmistress caning a naughty schoolgirl. Can you handle that?"

"I guess but it seems a shame to mark such a perfect bum," I said while swishing the cane through the air. "But I will admit this makes me feel lIke Darth Vader holding a lightsaber. Still, I don't want to hurt her."

The blonde interrupted rudely. "Fuck Darth Vader! Star Wars sucks!" 

Hearing such blasphemy I brought the cane down on her sculptured bum so powerfully that it broke in half.  A large sliver flew across the room, burying itself in the neck of the fluffer who was sucking on the lead actor's horse cock. When struck, the fluffer moaned loudly prompting the blowee to ejaculate over his face.

"That's the fuckin' money shot!" the director screamed. If that's the money shot I pray they pay me by check.

I thought I heard a rimshot but in actuality it was Parker, bursting through the door wearing a horned Viking helmet like Elmer Fudd in 'What's Opera Doc' and throwing Swedish meatballs like a Muppet chef. Grabbing my hand she led us toward safety while looking disapprovingly at my new wardrobe. "You'll be changing into your French maid uni stat. What the fuck were you thinking woman?"

Using a prop whip she began thrashing cast and crew until we escaped. "When did you get back? You weren't in Stockholm long. You didn't catch that Syndrome did you?"

"Just got back and tracked your phone. I turned down the Nobel because I'm no longer deserving since I will never lie to you again. ...Don't roll your eyes at me, bitch!"

"Will you be faithful this time, Parker?"

"Of course I will. I've already told Milton Bradley we're through."

With tears flowing I whispered, "Thank you so much for coming to my rescue, Parker. I love you so..."

She put a slender finger over my lips, shushing me. "Save it for the sequel," she said while winking at an imaginary camera.

(FADE TO BLACK. ROLL CREDITS)