betty, is it possible to turn down the lights a little bit? this front light is washing me out like crazy. i look like a little burlesque ghost, for chrissakes, twirling her little ghost pasties. this is a burlesque show not a sitcom. now, ella’s got the choreography for the aerial dance down pat, but she’s also chronically late, so the rest of us might only get a rehearsal-and-a-half in before showtime, so sally, put down the flask. lanie, carla, and patsy are also late. in fact … everyone’s late except for the three of us. great. this is what i get for recruiting via craigslist. you’d think there would be plenty of women who would love to join a burlesque troupe in portland, but it turns out they’re all making better money as waitresses in the pearl. and the ones that want to show off their tatas just work in vancouver as bikini baristas. i’m telling you, the burlesque market has really gone to shit lately. does no one want to see my strip with big feather fans and then read bukowski while i stick a lit sparkler in my ass? come on, people! this isn’t rocket science, it’s good old fashioned nudey times! carla’s got all the info on tickets sold so who knows if we’ll even have an audience. you know, fuck it, i say. even if it’s empty here we’ll have a good time. sally, stop drinking for a second, i need you to get the trapeze hooked up. i’ll grab the shawls. betty, i need the spotlight lenses cleaned. even if it’s just the three of us we’re going to put on the best goddamn burlesque show portland has to offer! let’s do this!
(spotlight comes on betty. she can’t see. she trips and falls into the audience with a crash.)
GOD DAMN IT. EVEN WITH A BROKEN LEG!