A garage. Twilight. Russell Brand lies on the floor in the fetal position. He cries. His wife unlocks the door joining the garage to the rest of the house. She carries a riding crop.

Wife: Okay! I’m unlocking your door: come to my bedroom immediately and earn your keep, Russell, and—I’m warning you—you’d better have shaved your legs smooth today, or I’ll—Russell?

Russell: I-I had a dream! A-a-a horrible dream w-w-where I was, I was, I-I-I f-f-f-f-f!

Russell breathes inward and makes that f-f-f-f-f noise that small children make when they are upset and having a difficult time controlling their emotions. Russell’s wife hits him with the ridding crop. Russell controls himself a little.

Russell: In my dream, I-I was reading o-online and I found a s-satire of me, ME, where I am at an interview and I was—you know how I do it—prancing around like a gay puppet talking, talking, talking and slaying everyone with my rapist wit—

Russell’s wife hits him with the ridding crop again.

Wife: Rapier wit, Russell; rapier.

Russell: With my rapier wit, and this is the f-f-f-f-f!

Russell’s wife hits him with the ridding crop again.

Russell: This is the terrible part! The interviewer was asking the same question over and over again and I tried, I tried! F-f-f-f-f!

His wife hits him with the ridding crop.

Russell: I tried to answer, but I couldn’t. I said everything, but I couldn’t answer the goddamn question, the same question, again and again, and I was just talking, talking, talking, talking! And I couldn’t do it, couldn’t answer the, the, f-f-f-f-f!

His wife hits him with the ridding crop.

Russell: And it was funny; everyone was laughing at me, AT me, at ME and I woke up and I just lay here crying because, because, because! F-f-f-f-f!

His wife hits him again.

Russell. Because what if it is true! What if no one is impressed with my lewd observations; my mediocre insights; or my messianic beard, waxed eyebrows, and sparsely populated chest hair! F-f-f-f-f!

His wife hits him again.

The end.