Sex And The City – The Sequel

I’m going to cheat slightly with my first entry here on wordpress and re-publish a post about Sex And The City that I first wrote on my rather obscure myspace blog. In fairness, there is a SATC sequel in the works, so let’s just pretend I wrote this about that and then everybody gets want they want. Or at least I get what I want. And that’s what really counts.

As the single women and gay men among you will already know, 2008 will bring the long awaited big screen debut of Sex and the City, following seven never-knowingly-under-dressed seasons of the TV show. I feel the producers of said film have missed the boat by not inviting me to handle the script for the movie. I am literally orgasming with ideas.

First of all, I wouldn’t set the film just after the TV show concluded, but twenty years in the future, allowing the audience to catch up on what the ladies have been up to in their twilight years.

Carrie – As we saw at the end of the final season, Carrie made the common mistake of leaving safe, clean, friendly New York for dark, dangerous, plague-infested Paris. There, she discovered with horror that people didn’t speak English, they spilled their overpriced wine on her Manolos, and there wasn’t a low-carb bagel to be found anywhere. Older but wiser for the experience, Carrie returned to New York and the welcoming member of Big, which is where the show concluded. In my follow-on, Carrie quit writing her regular newspaper column to devote all her energy to a book about her Continental sojourn, the widely ignored Paris: City of the Damned. When that was an ignoble flop, she found work writing morale and paranoia boosting pamphlets for the Department of Homeland Security, including such classics as American: The Language of Freedom and The European Menace: Why I’ll Never Buy Gaultier Again. Even as she nears retirement, no one has been kind enough to explain to Carrie that Big’s commitment phobia springs from the simple fact that he already has a wife and six children in Los Angeles and has already done hard time for polygamy. He’s always tried to pass off the prison tattoos as tribal art, although the “Property Of Stan” emblazoned across his buttocks has always been hard to explain and he changes the subject when Carrie brings that up by saying he read something about the French trying to get the UN Security Council to ban the speaking of English.

Samantha – Beating cancer at the end of season seven only served to inflame Samantha’s turbo-charged libido but now that she’s collecting a pension, she’s finding it much harder to attract the toy boys. As a result, Samantha has taken the unusual career step of becoming a porn star, appearing in such niche market titles as MILFS On The Make Volume 16, and Granny’s Got Back. When the porn work fails to satisfy her pathological need for stimulation, she breaks into old folks homes at night and manually pleasures the residents. On the mornings after her nocturnal ministrations, staff in the retirement homes find their male residents unusually relaxed and compliant, talking of how their dead wives came to them in their sleep last night. Only they looked much older than they remembered.

Miranda – The angriest woman in a city of angry people, Miranda is crippled by the alimony payments from her four failed marriages, and the court-ordered damages for mental cruelty she has to cough up every month to her traumatised ex-spouses and people who tried to engage her in conversation in elevators when she has having a bad day. Forbidden by law from ever dating another man, following the landmark case of The State of New York versus That Crazy Bitch, Miranda is experimenting with lesbianism as she searches for new people to alienate. She particularly enjoys fisting, but refuses to use lubricants or give her partners any advance warning of her intentions, preferring to launch surprise attacks while they are either asleep, recovering from surgery or waiting for the bus.

Charlotte –The neediest of the four friends, Charlotte has never quite gotten over the death of her husband Harry, fourteen years ago. She’s still wearing head-to-toe black and fills every conversation with awkward references to her deceased spouse. “Oh, we’re going for Italian? Harry loved Italian food.” “Oh, you’re going to the bathroom? Harry loved it when I pooped on his chest”, and so on. Harry isn’t actually dead, but he’s living under an assumed name in Hoboken, New Jersey, just to escape Charlotte’s cloying attentions. Unable to use his credit cards or bank account for fear of rousing Charlotte’s suspicions, Harry isn’t just living under an assumed name, but also in a cardboard box under a bridge. He tells his new homeless friends that while eating out of dumpsters, sleeping outside during New Jersey winters and living in your own filth have their downside, at least he has room to breathe and there’s no one telling him he can’t sit naked on his own goddamn couch.

So there’s my pitch. Come on Darren Star (if that is your real name), you can’t tell me what you’ve got planned is better than that? Call me, let’s do lunch.

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