Chapter 6: The One with the Butt and the Audition
Joey Tribbiani burst through the door of Central Perk, a triumphant, almost regal, strut in his step. He held a coffee mug like a scepter. His eyes were wide with a kind of simple, pure joy that was exclusively his.
"Guys! GUYS! You are not going to believe this! I just had the best audition of my life!" he announced, dropping onto the couch with an enthusiastic thump that sent a small cloud of dust into the air.
Chandler, who was in the middle of a very important conversation with a sugar packet, barely looked up. "Did it involve you wearing pants this time, or was it another 'dramatic artist's model' situation?"
"Hey! That was for a serious painting! And yes, Chandler, I wore pants. Most of the time." Joey leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It was for the new Al Pacino movie. And I was... his butt double!"
Ross, who was nervously fiddling with a coaster, looked up, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested deep intellectual consideration. "A butt double? Fascinating. So you were a stand-in for his... gluteus maximus?"
"Yeah! The director, he said my butt had... 'character.' He said it told a story. And I was giving him a monologue, you know? Just with my butt." Joey stood up and turned around, wiggling his hips slightly. "So I was standing there, and I was saying, 'My name is Tony, and I come from a long line of very sad Italian men.' You see? The butt is sad."
Rachel, who was wiping down the counter for the seventh time, leaned over, her face a mix of confusion and wonder. "But... Joey, how do you make a butt sad?"
"Well, you just... you just don't clench it, you know? You let it hang loose, like it's tired. Like it's seen things. It's a method acting thing, you know? A lot of people don't get it."
Adam, who had been listening with a small, amused smirk, finally chimed in. "So what happened? Did you get the part, or did the director decide that Al Pacino's butt had more range?"
Joey's face fell slightly. "Well, that's the thing. I got a little... too into it. I started improvising. I did a little wiggle, you know? To show his turmoil, his sadness. And the director, he just yelled, 'What are you doing?! He's a veteran, not a stripper!' And then I was fired. Fired for being too good, if you can believe it."
Chandler took a long sip of his coffee. "Oh, I believe it. I believe it with every fiber of my being."
Just then, Adam's expression shifted, his eyes glazing over for a moment as if he were looking at something only he could see. "Alright, Mr. Omniscient Dating System. The butt story is a disaster. I need to balance the karma. I need to make some progress. How do I get a modeling gig with Monica Bellucci and solidify my place in this city?"
[Attend a Vogue photo shoot with Monica Bellucci on November 5, 1994, at 3 PM. Say: 'Your grace elevates every frame.']
A quiet, confident smile spread across Adam's face. "A Vogue photo shoot. Perfect. The butt story is a disaster, but my life, thanks to this System, is a dream. Now for the fun part." He looked over at Monica, who had just come in with Rachel, and was already inspecting a microscopic coffee stain on the table.
"Oh, no, no, no," Monica muttered to herself, pulling out a small bottle of stain remover. "This is a disgrace. You don't just 'wipe,' you dab. And then you dab with a little bit of club soda, and then you use a special stain remover! You don't just... wipe!"
Later that day, in Monica's apartment, dinner was being prepared. Monica was in a state of high-strung, culinary bliss. She held a steaming pot of stew with the reverence of a high priestess.
"Okay, everyone, this is it," she announced. "My famous beef stew. A little bit of paprika for color, a pinch of oregano for depth, and a touch of cinnamon for warmth..." She took a big spoonful and blew on it dramatically before taking a small sip. Her eyes, which had been sparkling with joy, suddenly widened. Her face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. She dropped the spoon, which clattered on the table.
"What is this?!" she shrieked. "This tastes like... Christmas and dirt! It tastes like... a terrible fruitcake that someone left in a sandbox!"
She spun around, her eyes landing on Adam, who was trying to stifle a laugh behind a glass of water. "Adam! Did you do this?! Did you mess with my spices?! Did you switch my cinnamon with paprika?! Did you switch my oregano with... nutmeg?! Was it nutmeg?!"
Adam, feigning innocence with the grace of a professional liar, took a long, slow sip of his water. "I don't know what you're talking about, Monica. Maybe you just need to... spice up your life."
Monica, a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown, lunged at him, a wooden spoon in her hand. "You switched my spices! You switched my spices, Adam Stields! I'm going to get you! I'm going to get you so good!"
The rest of the group, of course, was in hysterics. Ross and Rachel just looked at each other, their faces a mixture of amusement and concern. Chandler, seeing the chase, just shook his head. "I'm telling you, this is why I just eat cereal. You can't prank a bowl of Corn Flakes. Unless you replace the milk with orange juice, but that's just a waste of orange juice."