ElectroBabe and DynaChick 2--The Original Script!
[Disclaimer/credits over jagged shadows against industrial-gray brick. Smoke?]
[EB slinks along a hallway or tunnel, seemingly in pursuit of some villain.]
EB: (into her ElectroComp) DynaChick, I am going to continue my routine patrol of the Debutante's Abandoned False Eyelash Factory Hideout. If I'm not home by six, start boiling the spaghetti. And don't burn it again like you did last time. Electro-out.
[EB is caught off guard by a hand appearing from behind her. We assume that she has been overtaken by the old chloroform trick. She is then scooped up and carted off with an over-the-shoulder carry. In the next room she is dumped on the floor like a sack of potatoes by the two goons, who are revealed to be Dim and Dum.]
Dim: Sleeping like a sweet little baby. You sure knocked her out good. Chloroform, yah?
Dum: Not chloroform.
Dim: Not chloroform? What, then?
Dum: (holding up underwear) Stinky underwear.
Dim: Hey! That's my stinky underwear!
Dum: So what? They're dirty! [tosses them in Dim's face] Come on, we gotta strap her down good and slip her the stick. Capisce?
[EB is securely bound in a flopped hog tie.]
Dim: And now, for the unkindest poke of all...
[Dim slips a stick of dynamite into the crotch opening of EB's leotard--the wick stretches for several yards. One of them produces a lighter and they both laugh evilly.]
[We cut to the credits sequence/theme song, which offers as a backdrop EBDC tied in various formations, but very artily, like the beginning of a James Bond movie.]
[We re-enter EB's predicament with a tracking shot of the wick, which doesn't seem to have burned all that much since we cut away to the credits. EB awakens and reacts to her predicament--struggling, but to no avail. Then a look of inspiration crosses her face. She tilts her head to the side, and with her teeth, fully extends an antenna/microphone from somewhere behind her cape.]
EB: DynaChick! Forget about the spaghetti! I'm going to be overcooked pasta if you don't get over here right away! Take the bypass to 12 West. But don't take the St. Joe Parkway, because they're sealing the cracks today until 3 p.m. Oh! And when you get here, don't park in front or you'll be towed. Park behind the library. That's the big, gray, important-looking building. And hurry! Hear that sssssss-ing sound? That's dynamite, girlfriend!
[We watch the wick burn ever closer until just the last moment, when DC appears, snuffing it out with the toe of her boot. We pan up to her smiling face. She crouches to untie EB.]
DC: Good thing you just had that Electro-Emergency Concealed Shortwave Radio installed in your Electro-leotard. Or this would have been a case to file under "Things That Make You Go Boom."
EB: Electro-right-on! That was too close!
DC: So who overpowered you? The Purple Scoundrel?
EB: I don't know. I really don't know. It all happened so quickly. I felt a gloved hand and smelt this stinky underwear, and then it was lights out for ElectroBabe. They didn't even wait for me to regain consciousness--you know, so they could explain everything in great detail, like usual.
DC: Well, let's make up a list of likely suspects on the way back to Electro-base. My niece is flying in from out of town, and we have to get there before she does. She's going to be staying in the guest room of our bachelorette pad, if that's okay with you, of course.
EB: I didn't know you had a niece.
DC: Oh yeah. Her name's Honey Spice. She's a world-famous pop star. She was on the cover of the Times AND Newsday in the same month. I told her it would be groovy if she hid out with us while she's in town for a concert. She gets no privacy anywhere she goes, you know.
EB: DynaChick, have you lost your mind? What about our secret identities?
DC: Relax. She doesn't know that Judi and Lori are really the world famous and revered ElectroBabe and DynaChick. And if you ask her nice enough, you might even get a private concert. Admit it. Wouldn't you like to see some really terrific rock right about now?
[Cut to their apartment. We see broken glass near a window frame (Honey has bashed her way in, apparently), and the camera moves from that to a wall phone jack, and then follows a seemingly endless phone line, much like the wick at the beginning. Along the line are various items that Honey has strewn about, including empties, luggage, junk food wrappers, copies of "Spandex Tights" and whatnot--basically, whatever's hanging around the set. The line eventually wraps itself around the ankle of Honey herself, who is a sexy little hot-pants- and go-go-boot-wearing vixen a la Spice Girls. During this long tracking shot, she conducts a phone interview.]
H: To answer your first question last, if you really want a thorough interview, okay, here it is. This is my personal opinion: Real empowerment for girls my age demands sexual assertiveness. That's just a fact. Some girls wait forever to seize the power, but girl power isn't something you should wait for. You should just reach right out and take it. Just grab it with both hands and yank it. Make it yours, I say. Does that make clear my attitude? See what I'm sayin'? [silence as interviewer apparently asks question] Well, that little stunt wasn't my idea. Those photos were for artistic purposes only, and someone who is no longer with the Honey Spice machine started that mess. But's that not what I'm down with. Not that kind of image, anyway. Know what I'm sayin? I believe in important things, like giving crack to the inner cities and unborn teenage pregnancies. And beats and rhymes, beats and rhymes. You're the music critic. You do the math. [pause] Say that again? [pause] Well, I guess I'm missing something because I just don't see any connection between the way I dress or dance or sing and teenage sex. Kids are gonna knock boots, what can I say? I'm just reflecting reality. Slap a label on it. You will anyway. My music is about good clean all-American fun, like doing the nasty. As a matter of fact, if you play my latest single, "Daddy, Can I Touch It?" backwards, you'll hear me say "Wear a Condom." That's where I'm coming from. [sound of door opening] We're going to have to continue this some other time, okay? Of course. Of course. Outta here. [hangs up]
[Honey hops up from the sofa to greet Lori and Judi, who look very classy and professional in everyday wear, and who of course have cameras around their necks. We are treated to a shot in which Honey's legs and buns fill the foreground like an A-frame and we see the dwarfed L and J standing within the "V."]
DC: (hugging her) Honey! This is kind of a surprise for us. We weren't expecting you for another couple of hours. At least.
H: I got an earlier flight because they were serving pate de froie gras and, plus, the movie was better. I had to throw a brick through your window to get in, though.
EB: Oh, ah, that's all right.
[profile shot of both parties, now within proximity]
H: I hope you don't mind my hangin' out for a few weeks, days, whatever. I'll try to be a good roomie. But I've got to warn you. I have a tendency to clog drains with my extensions. Comes with the job, you know. Oh yeah. I know what you guys can do for me. I'm having a party later with some of the local boys. Gotta do my market research, know what I'm sayin? If you two could be doing something else around then, that'd be great. Nothing kills a party quicker than a couple of chaperones from the older crowd, if you know what I mean. So. Got any more beer?
EB: You know, Honey, going by your Aunt Judi's description, I thought you were a minor. You seem a little more...mature. A lot more mature.
H: Actually, I'm 24. It's kind of an unwritten rule in America that you have to be in your twenties to be a teen idol. Real teens are feebs and dweebs, ya know? So. Got any more beer?
[Just then, DynaChick's wristcomp, which looks pretty conspicuous worn with her otherwise classy outfit (but we've skillfully kept that wrist out of camera range until now), starts beeping.]
DC: Er, ah, that would be my beeper, Lori. [to Honey] Hate to run, but duty calls. You just make yourself at home and we'll see you this afternoon, okay?
H: That's a funny looking beeper.
EB: We require it in our everyday duties as undercover photojournalists. We lead important lives, and investigate important assignments. Let's go, Dy...er...Judi!
[outside apartment/in the hallway]
EB: Whewww. That was close.
DC: Electro-correctamundo. Another minute and I would have confessed about that case of Old Gotham stashed in your hamper. Thank goodness for the self-setting alarm function in our ElectroComps!
EB: That's right, DynaChick! And now...to the laundromat!
[Inside the apartment, Honey relaxes on the couch, absentmindedly posing seductively, like someone who learned long ago how to act sexy but has since forgotten the difference between a public and private pose. The phone rings and she answers.]
H: Speak. And if this is about my break up with the BackDoor Boys, this interview is over!
[A high-pitched tone, run through a telephone effect, fills the soundtrack. Honey's eyes go wide and her body goes slack, though her hand instinctively keeps the phone to her ear. The camera pulls back to reveal that her body is undergoing near-orgasmic spasms. We cut to a shot of a wall with GlamourRock's shadow evident.]
GR: At the sound of the tone, your scrumptious little body will be all mine, sweet princess! [tone ends] Greetings, honey-coated singer chick. I could take this time to introduce myself, but you're already a captive audience, so what's the point? There'll be time to get to know me really well later. But first you need to get here, my dear. I'm at Crespo and Delaney, at the old abandoned Rock and Roll Nightclub. Oh, and make sure that when you call for a cab, it's not Tri-Way Taxi or Ace Cab. Those guys are straight off of the boat and they'll drive you all over town while blasting break dance music, which wasn't in fashion even when it was in fashion. And make sure that cabbie doesn't take you through FunkyTown, either. Now get here, little Miss Young-and-Yummy! Ta.
[We dissolve into Doc's. Glamour Rock consults with his henchman, a punker named "Rude Dude."]
GR: Ah yes, Rude Dude. I can practically taste her now. That sweet meat will be a neat treat, and them's good eats! And then I'll just as quickly trick those hick chicks from the sticks--the ones that make me so sick--ElectroBoob and VaginaChick!
RD: I don't get it, Glamour Rock. I think it was real smart how you got that disco doll's phone number off her agent, but how will kidnapping a pop tart like Honey Spice lead ElectroBabe and DynaChick into our trap?
GR: It's so easy that it's sleazy, Rude Dude! Those two talking hairdos are dumber than an ice cube, and so it will be an easy thing to get them to personally deliver the ransom. And that's when we'll overpower them. It's all just a matter of time, Rude Dude, all just a matter of time. Or maybe--a matter of rhyme?!
[They laugh evilly, and then we wipe to Rude Dude as he brings in a zombified Honey.]
RD: You practically knocked her catatonic with that thing you did on the phone, GlamourRock! Are you sure you didn't scramble her brain like an egg?
GR: Not to worry, Rude Dude. The effect of the GlamourRock ear-piercing phone tone is only temporary.
RD: [holding palm out] The cab cost 15 bucks, by the way.
GR: [ignoring RD as he inspects Honey] 15 dollars?! That's an outrage! If I were you, I wouldn't have paid it! [to Honey] You've slipped into a hip trip, my sweet lips. And you may not dig this gig, but the finer bait, the shorter the wait. Only ElectroBabe and DynaChick can save you now. Rude Dude, be a swell pal and turn this tasty little vixen into our special of the day, eh?
[Honey is tied down to a plank (massage table?), as the two villains loom over her. She seems to come to, shaking her head to clear it. We get her POV with the in-out focus routine.]
GR: Wake up, little birdie. I'd hate to turn a young sexy like you into a human banana split without waking her up for the sticky climax. Rude Dude, begin the foaming process!
H: Why are you doing this to me?!
GR: We are going to make a mold of your delicious body, hapless heroine, and then from that mold we will produce a robot that will continue your world tour. Oh, but this won't be just any robot. Noooo. This robot will emit high frequency brainwash patterns during your concerts, effectively decimating the minds of your young audience. And the best part is that no one will notice, because your little disco-dancing fans are all brain-dead anyway!
H: You'll never get away with this, you fiend!
GR: Maybe not, but ya can't fault a guy for wanting to break into show business! Rude Dude, flick the switch!
[Rude Dude covers her from toe to neck in foam (we can run a tube from some cans of shaving cream) as Honey struggles.]
H: Unnh. It's so clingy. It's like there's a giant tongue tasting my tights!
RD: Hey! That's not a bad idea.
GR: Later, Rude Dude. Later.
[In their everyday guise, EBDC return from a trip to the laundromat. In the back seat of their car, their laundry is apparent, with superheroine garments on top, completely ruining any idea of discretion.]
DC: You know, sometimes I feel like we're on a downward spiral leading to nowhere.
EB: You know, Judi, you don't always have to entertain those perverts who hang out at the laundromat. They don't even tip you. They could at least tip you for the show you give 'em.
DC: And just what the hell's that supposed to mean?
EB: All I'm saying is that you don't have to sit on top of the washing machine while it's going through the jerk cycle. You can sit in a chair. That's what they're there for. When you sit on the washing machine, you might as well be lap dancing, girlfriend. And when you change clothes in plain view? Please!
DC: Well, you could try not leading with your chest when you walk. And look who wore her ElectroTights to the laundromat. Talk about Electro-tacky!
EB: I was all out of clean clothes, all right? My entire closet is in the trunk of this car. I'm wearing purple polka dot panties. I mean, come on.
DC: Lori! Those are my panties!
EB: So what? They're dirty! [beat] Now call up your little tramp for a niece and see if she's found her way into my stash yet.
DC: [dialing a cell phone.] Well, that wouldn't surprise me. You shouldn't keep your stash in a shoebox marked "stash," Lori. It just looks kind of obvious.
EB: Oh, now I'm the one that's obvious. [Long pause as they glare at each other in silence.]
DC: Something's wrong. She's not answering. No red-blooded all-American girl can resist the ring of a telephone. Lori, I'm worried.
EB: Try that new caller ID last message received function.
DC: The last number to call her...was...234-9450. Cross referenced by address. That puts us at Delaney and Crespo.
EB: I know where that is. That's the old abandoned Rock and Roll Nightclub. We can be there in ten minutes! It's just west of this exit! [Long silence as they realize that the exit has been unraveling for quite some time.]
DC: This certainly is a long exit.
[We cut back to the niece, who is now strapped into a brainwashing booth (that thing in the alley, or put some headphones on her at the very least.]
GR: Give her full volume, Rude Dude.
RD: Talk about screwed, blewed and tatooed! But what is this thing, GlamourRock?
GR: We're going to tape over the music playing in her head, Rude Dude. From now on, she's going to be our human fashion doll. Like, dressed for sex, eh Rude Dude? Now play the tape!
Rude Dude turns up the volume on a mixer, and Honey struggles. Smoke comes from the phones after awhile (maybe some colored lights if available?) and GR and RD grin maniacally. Somehow, Honey undergoes an ultra-slut makeover (cf Olivia Newton John in Grease), in the same magical way that Bruce and Dick became Batman and Robin simply by sliding down the Bat-poles. After the camera and GR and RD get their perverted eyeful, a buzzer wakes them from their rapture.
GR: Sounds like a couple of hot and freaky rock fans forgot their backstage pass.
RD: Let's give 'em the groupie treatment, GlamourRock!
GR: No. I have a better idea. I want you to unplug our Honey Spice android from the battery recharger and send her to greet those dippy daredolls
RD: (slapping palms) Right on, GlamourRock!
[The "robot" greets EBDC.]
EB: Let's keep our eyes peeled, DynaChick. There's evil afoot, and maybe even under our feet, so make sure you don't step in anything.
DC: Electro-yecch!
Robot: [monotonous robot voice] ElectroBabe! DynaChick! I'm so glad you both showed up! I heard there was some really terrific rock here.
[EB and DC exchange looks. They're not fooled for a moment.]
EB: This is no place for a lady [stage whisper from behind her hand to DynaChick], even if the lady in question is a robot.
Robot: It was either this or watch endless reruns of The Urkel Show. You know something you guys could get? A satellite dish.
DC: [stage whisper behind her hand to EB] They really got her speech patterns down!
EB: Can I ask you a question, Honey?
Robot: Okay.
EB: Why doesn't Urkel's family realize that he's really a grown man who acts like a child. That he's in fact freakishly incapable of facing reality. That he should be committed to an insane asylum for aging child actors?
[Smoke comes from behind the robot's head, and a couple of springs stick out of her hair. Her eyes dart wildly.]
DC: Electro-wow, ElectroBabe! What happened? How did you get that robot imposter to self-destruct?
EB: It's simple, DynaChick. Too simple, really. Robots, like many other Americans, seek the simplest path to self-satisfaction. Point out a single flaw in that path, and the dreamer stumbles.
DC: You know, I never did find Urkel all that funny.
EB: Let's split up. We'll stand a better chance of finding the real Honey Spice.
[DynaChick enters a separate room and appears to have the upper hand--GlamourRock and Rude Dude are sitting with their backs to her.]
DC: You might as well give up, GlamourRock. We have you surrounded!
GR: DynaChick. So we meet again.
DC: Surprised?
GR: Not at all. We were expecting you, so we took the liberty of spraying GlamourRock insta-glue on the spot where you now stand!
DC: [trying to pull her legs free] Oh my gosh! Electro-flypaper!
RD: Time for a touch-up, GlamourRock?
GR: Spray and repeat, my punky sidekick.
[Rude Dude sprays DynaChick while she stands in the classic, haughty hands-on-hips position]
GR: Just a little extra glue to keep you in that classic pose, DynaChick. Just like hairspray fixes a hairdo in place.
DC: What is the purpose of this, GlamourRock?
GR: I've been wanting to redecorate my hideout, DynaChick, but money's too tight this month, so Rude Dude and I are going to create our own masterpiece, using GlamourRock-brand industrial sealants. Finished, RudeDude?
RD: You got it, Maestro!
GR: Excellent! Now it's time for a coating of GlamourRock Super Unbreakable Sprayable Aluminum.
RD: [shaking spraycan] Shake well before using!
[GR and RD spray DynaChick from bottom to top with the silver paint. We will "coat" Katelyn with Aluminum Foil, and represent her POV by having the villains spray onto glass placed before the camera lens.]
RD: She's done for, GlamourRock! Totally done for!
GR: Hmmm. I still think we should have turned her into a Jello mold, but you know what they say about art never being complete...
EB: [off-camera] Freeze, you creeps!
[GR and RD are immobilized by a blast from EB's Electro-Comp, and because they were in the middle of one of their big guffaws, their faces are frozen in an awkward position.]
GR: That's a swift and nifty trick, Electro-Chick. I guess two can play that riff. But what are you going to do for an encore?
EB: It's a long-term engagement for you two troubadors at the State Pen. You guys are going to learn to do the Jailhouse Rock!
RD: Curses!
Honey: [appearing from out of nowhere] Oh, ElectroBabe. Thank goodness you caught them!
EB: Honey! What are you doing in that ridiculously slutty get-up? Your Aunt Ju...I mean, DynaChick, is going to hit the roof.
Honey: Isn't that her in the corner, with the rust-resistant aluminum coating?
EB: Thanks for reminding me. Now to set my ElectroComp to "melt."
Honey: [grabbing her suddenly] Oh, but first a hug! I was so scared!
EB: Gee, Honey, everything's [Honey buzzes EB in the neck with a hand buzzer] ...o...kay...now...unnnnnh.
GR: Oh yes, ElectroBabe. Everything's peachy keen! Honey, hit us with a blast of that ElectroComp, but reverse the polarity first. [GR and RD "thaw."] Ah, free at last! Now let's wrap up this delicious package before she stops vibrating.
[GR and RD wrap EB in cellophane, up to the neck, though she comes to and begins to struggle.]
GR: We have to leave now to plan our world domination tour. Don't worry, though, ElectroBabe. You'll keep your freshness in that plastic wrap. You see, it is very special GlamourRock album cover shrinkwrap. I had to discontinue it because it kept warping albums in hot record stores during the energy crisis, but that same tendency to shrink when warm will prove to be your undoing. It will coat your pores! Crush your bones! Delicious! Come, Rude Dude and Honey Slut, er, Spice. Let us, like, prepare for our encore!
[EB struggles within the plastic.]
EB: [v.o. indicating her thoughts] There must be some way out of this, but how? Must think cold thoughts...
[Cut to a flashback, indicated by sepia tone. EB is sitting on a couch with her boyfriend. Both look dated--'50s? '60s? '70s?]
Boyfriend: Oh baby, baby. Can't you see I love you and I don't mean maybe? I gave you my class ring, for Chrissakes!
EB: I know you love me, Bobby. But a girl needs a little sign of appreciation once in a while. Flowers. Candy. A freshly showered boyfriend.
Boyfriend: I've given you my heart. How much more can I give?
EB: Most girls, after they've been going steady, get a little something to show other girls, Bobby. A sign of appreciation. Do I have to come right out and say it? Jesus! My girlfriend Judi says she saw you in the mall the other day. You've already got a full case of motor oil! What were you shopping for? Are you sure it wasn't something round and hollow, just for me? Hint, hint. Or have you forgotten that next week is my birthday?
Boyfriend: Oh, I'm sorry, baby! Close your eyes. [pan to EB's eyes] Now open 'em.
EB: [a look of disbelief]Is that what I think it is?
Boyfriend: You betcha! Snow tires!
EB: Suddenly, I feel so cold.
[Here we dissolve from a close shot of EB's eyes to the same framing for present-day EB. Pull back to show that EB's bonds have loosened like a shed skin.]
EB: Now, to free DynaGirl!
[EB is seen freeing DC from the last remnants of the aluminum cast with a pair of tin snips.]
EB: Good girl, DynaChick! You remembered to use your Electro-tantric breathing technique.
DC: Electro-wheww! I never thought I could hold my breath for so long!
EB: I've found out what they've done with Honey Spice. Your little niece has been brainwashed into being a white-trash vixen!
DC: Those fiends! They won't get away with it!
EB: I'm guessing that GlamourRock melted her brain with a very high frequency blast. If we set my ElectroComp to an antithetical wavelength, we can create enough phase cancellation to clear Honey's head, and return her to normal.
DC: Sounds kind of crazy, but it just might work.
EB: Oh, DynaChick. Now you sound like somebody in a sitcom.
DC: Let's go. I think I can smell her perfume from here.
[EB and DC sneak up on Honey, who is lounging unaware--sucking lasciviously on a chocolate, perhaps.]
Honey: Should you two be up and...living and stuff? I don't think GlamourRock would like that.
EB: This is for your own good, Honey. [blasts her]
Honey: Unnhh. Where am I? ElectroBabe and DynaChick! Why am I wearing such a slutty outfit?
DC: We'll have time to tell you that later, Honey. But now we have to...
[insert of GlamourRock's hand tossing a smoke bomb, with the bomb landing in front of the camera like the glass snowball at the beginning of Citizen Kane.]
EB: [pointing at the floor] Knockout gas!
DC: [coughing] Getting weak. Must stay conscious.
EB: Don't talk, DynaChick. It will only make you breathe in the gas.
Honey: Man! What a freaky buzz!
[They all pass out in a ridiculously stretched-out scene, one body layering over the other in a sexy Solid Gold Dancers pose. They awake to find themselves in the Siamese Human Knot, with GR and RD cackling in the background.]
GR: You may recognize this as the Siamese Human Knot, trapped trio. It's proved the downfall of many a superhero. The concept is simple: Using this depraved yoga position, your own bones will be used to crush and strangle you, should you be foolish enough to try to escape. And that's super-tough electric guitar string tying you into place, babies. It will ensure that you remain in this position long enough for me to blast my brainwash beam at the youth of this fair city during tonight's Honey Spice concert. Oh. Before I go, I thought I would leave you with a song, ladies. Just a little bonus at no extra charge.
["Pretzel Prize" song (see lyrics on EBDC2 Home Page]
GR: Catch you on the flip side, tight thighs. [GR and RD laugh and depart.]
DC: Talk about human pretzels!
EB: Exactly, DynaChick. This is torture, at its most bizarre and terrible.
Honey: We can't just stay motionless in this knot, ElectroBabe. The future of rock music may depend on us.
EB: Give me another moment. I'm trying to recall some research I once did on Siamese Human Knots.
Honey: I can't stand this much longer, ElectroBabe. I'm getting terrible cramps in my legs.
EB: Good.
DC: Good? Terrible cramps?!
EB: Exactly. An involuntary contraction of the muscles in Honey's legs should indirectly ease the tension on your lower lumbar region, DynaChick.
DC: But won't that slip or compact my disc?
EB: Not quite, DynaChick. Because if I wiggle my ears, you could possibly bend the fourth finger on your left hand a fraction of an inch.
Honey: But that could strangle us.
EB: Release us, Honey Spice. Release us. It's the basic formula for escaping from the Siamese Human Knot. I saw Adam West use it on Batman once. (beat) Ready? I'm just starting to wiggle my ears.
[They all ad lib here, while the camera circles them dizzily. They could each take a line of dialogue when the camera hits "their good sides."]
All: Maybe if you perk your right nipple...I could put all of my weight on my left butt cheek and bounce a little...try to soften your hips a little...okay, good, now flex your left thigh...etc.
DC: It's no use, ElectroBabe. These guitar strings won't permit us the range of motion we need to escape.
EB: Things do look dark indeed, DynaChick. Oh, how can we escape this dire dilemma?
Narrator: How indeed?! Will the terrific trio escape the terrific Siamese Human Knot and live to see some really terrific rock? Or will their bones be crushed to bloody dust? Don't...move, dear viewer. The worst is yet to come!
DC: If only we could break these bonds, ElectroBabe.
EB: These strings are so tight!
Honey: Now I know how a guitar feels when it's strung too tight.
EB: That's it.
DC: What?
EB: These guitar strings are all chromium plated. To better vibrate.
DC: So? How does that help us?
EB: If we can harmonize at technotronic intervals, the vibrations in our bodies will augment and form a C flat-sharp--the HUMAN CHORD!
Honey: I get it! The tonal variation will phase cancel the tension in these guitar strings!
EB: Exactly. You know, Honey, you're not as dumb as you dress.
Honey. Hey, thanks, ElectroBabe.
EB: Okay, I'll hit a G flat diminished major. DynaChick, you sing at a third octave above that in the mixylodian scale. Honey, you just imitate Mariah Carey.
[They do, and the strings magically loosen.]
DC: Whew. That was horrible.
Honey: I'll say. You two sound like cats in heat. Good thing nobody recorded that.
EB: Speaking of music, we've got to stop GlamourRock's plan for world domination.
DC: But first things first. Honey, we've got to get you out of that slutty outfit.