Steven: Joe? Joe?

Joe: Yeah.

Steven: You awake?

Joe: Yeah.

Steven: So we're in our 60s now.

Joe: Mmhmm.

Steven: I mean, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but...you think it might be time to get yourself your own microphone?

(pause)

Joe: I'm not sure I follow.

Steven: Tonight it was really, really bad. Like I resent you for like four or five minutes after it happens. I'm saying in my head "Will this asshole get his own fucking microphone?" while I'm trying to remember the words to "Hole in My Soul."

Joe: Ok.

Steven: I mean, it was literally like we sloppily made out on stage tonight. I tasted your saliva.

Joe: Right.

Steven: Like sometimes I'm not even sure you realize what you're doing. You held your cheek against mine tonight. Did you know that? It was as if we were two drunk freshman girls posing for a facebook picture.

Joe: Sure.

Steven: I anticipated your confusion, so I planted Steve Mitchell in the crowd tonight to take a picture. Check this shit out:

(shows him this picture)



Steven: You look like you're about to make a move. Like we're on your parents' couch after prom. And I'm trying to move myself away from you, but it's really no use. I mean, this is the shit that Air Supply pulled. Air Supply! Look at them now.

Joe: Not doing well.

Steven: I dread it every night. I really do. I'm like "Love in an elevator, livin it up til...fuck, here comes Joe. Shit. I'm about to suck face with a 62 year-old man. There's nothing I can do." But there is something I can do. That you can do. Please. Get your own microphone.

Joe. Ok. Sorry.

Steven: It's fine. Thank you.

Joe: I just, I find it odd that you're bitching about my saliva when you have the Large Hadron Collider of mouths. I mean, that's a pretty universal opinion.

Steven: Fair point.

(Extended pause)

Joe: Can we still have sex?

Steven: Oh God, Joe! Come on! Of course. Jesus.