By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
It's Grammy night. Having just finished a rousing medley of the Police's greatest hits, guitarist Andy Summers, drummer Stewart Copeland and bassist/vocalist Sting gather backstage to bathe in the afterglow of yet another reunion performance.
SUMMERS: That felt good.
COPELAND: Not bad. Not great, but OK.
STING: You managed to get through it without noticeably degrading the integrity of your snare drum.
COPELAND: I'm sorry, what?
STING: Like, a few years ago at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony when you blew open your snare.
COPELAND: I was trying to play over the sing-along din of your Top 40 friends.
STING: They weren't my friends.
COPELAND: Shut up, Andy.
STING: Andrew, the grown-ups are talking.
COPELAND: Seriously, Gordon. When are we going to get back on track with this whole thing? You've had your little solo career, you've indulged the acting bug, you've mastered the Klingon language and you've effortlessly crossed over into adult contemporary and light jazz. What more do you want?
STING: My name's not "Gordon." It's "Sting." And Sting wants to have sex with that snack table for several hours.
COPELAND: Snack what?
STING: Over there with all the finger foods and hors d'oeuvres. Whenever Three 6 Mafia is done wolfing down shrimp toast, I'm going to go over there and have sex with that snack table for 12 hours straight.
COPELAND: Real cute. That shit was funny maybe last century. But far be it from the magnificently talented Gordon Sumner to perform any worthwhile original material since, like, 1984.
STING: It's Sting. For the last time, please call me by my proper name.
COPELAND: For the last time, your proper name is Gordon Matthew Sumner. You arrogant cock-hole!
SUMMERS: Sometimes people will ask me if we're related, and I have to tell them that your last name is "Sumner" with an N and my last name is "Summers" with two M's. Also, there's an S at the end. So, I think those would be the most noticeable differences between—
STING: Andy, I want you to go find me a massive block of ice, and then I want you to sculpt it into a life-size replica of me. Then I want you to put the ice sculpture of me next to that snack table over there and then I will have sex with it for four consecutive days or until it completely melts into a pool, whichever comes first. Wait, strike that last part. Even if it melts into a pool, I will continue to have tantric intercourse with it for four successive days.
COPELAND: My balled-up fist is about to have tantric intercourse with your stupid face.
SUMMERS: We could record a cover of the theme song to Cops. That would be cheeky, eh? The Police covering the Cops theme, right? Bad boys, bad boys, what ya gonna do? What ya gonna do when they —
COPELAND: Shut the fuck up, Andy.
STING: Andy, please do shut up.
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