Hubbub At The Top Of The Hub

The scene:

Top Of the Hub lounge, 52nd floor of the Prudential Building, in Boston.
Elegant surroundings, posh ambiance. Well dressed, well-to-do, well-bred clientele. The lights of Boston twinkle. The keys of the grand piano tinkle. The elevator door opens. Four shabby dolts stumble in.

Two of the stooges, a Marx brother and John Candy in dungarees.
Frank, The Emperor Bolo who resembles Chico Marx, is walking like a lobster man who's still on the boat. Reeking of Bacardi 151, he spits his way through asking the waitress for something no one can understand.
It's his bachelor party. They've been at it for a while.

They look for a table, find one, but it only has 3 seats, so they rip one away from a nearby table of romantic yuppies, and flop down near the nicely dressed Jazz trio. One of them farts. Ninja style. Horrified patrons mutter behind champagne glasses. It smells like old crayfish.

A terse unattractive displeased waitress arrives, and does them a great favor by asking them if they will be having cocktails this evening.

The Emperor orders the Green Manalishi Gasolini Martini with olives and extra roasted peppers, and the waitress exhales like a bull.

The others order aged turpentine and mimeograph solution in special glasses. Each drink costs as much as a pair of pants.

They watch the band tinkle, and the lights twinkle. Their conversation is peppered with loud swears and grunts like you'd hear in a locker room.

Morons by candle light.
Balls are scratched.
Staring is going on.

The band sounds good. The four dolts drool at the band like drugged walruses watching a card trick.

Suddenly Bolo decides to make a statement! With slurred enthusiasm he spews forth;

"Ya see that drummer? I know that fuggin' guy! That's Bob G!!! I studied with that guy for years! Heesh a great drummer! BARP! What a great fargin' guy!

He had an ashtray... and everything! That fuggen guy! I wonder if he still remembers me?"

The set ends. The band goes on break. The bitter waitress, a soul-less grimacing yeast infection in an undertaker's suit, suffers through another order. Bolo gargles at attempted joke at her though a mouthful of olives, and he hands her the empty glass.

No one knows what the hell he said. The waitress looks at him like he's a hellgrammite on her pillow. They don't use jokes on the Planet Of The Undertakers.

She scribbles "I hate you,"in her leather bound notebook and stomps away terribly constipated.

The jazz drummer, on break now, slides past the table of dolts. A nerve ending crackles in Bolo's brain, and he lurches up suddenly, belting both knees against the table, sending the martini glasses scuttling and wobbling, and for a second it's like the four dolts are spinning pie plates on the Ed Sullivan Show.
Mimeograph solution and turpentine sloshes onto the table, coming dangerously close to staining their filthy dungarees.

Bolo leaps sideways, shooting his rolling chair against a romantic couple. He stumbles forward like Frankenstein toward his former drum teacher.

"Bob!"

The drummer turns, looks, confused.

"Hey! BOB!" The Emperor lunges at him with an open hand.

"Mumembah me? Ya know who I am?" swaying, as the lobster boat takes a big wave.

The jazz drummer nervously extends his hand, politely, unsure.

"You mumembah me. Doncha? I ushed ta shtudy with you for fifteen fuggen' years!

You had the ashtray ... and everything."

Uncomfortable smile, polite confused head shaking. A shrug.

"YA, YA , YA! COURSE YOU KNOW ME! YOUR BOB G ! BARP! Yer a friggin' great fargin' drummer man, no shit. Member me? Bolo? Mumember? Your Bobby G. Right?"

"No. Actually I'm not. Heh-heh... I know Bob G. He's a great drummer, and I'm flattered that you, ah, would think I WAS him, but I'm not him. I'm Bob Cervix."

"Get the f**k outta here! You gotta be shitting me! You're not Bob G? I shtuddied with you for fifteen yearsh?"

"No I'm Bob Cervix. I do know Bob G though. He's a great guy. Great drummer too."

"Oh shit! I thought you were Bob G. Barp! ya look jush like him! I ushed to take lessons from him, with the ashtray, and the ...but you're Bob Cervix instead, huh?"

"Yeah. Bob cervix."

"Oh no, that sucks!... wanna sit down with us anyways?"