Title: Bad in Plaid
Genre: Humor/Friendship
Rating: T
Summary: Collins wants to know why Roger likes to wear plaid so much. Roger explains it to him... in song. In the simplest terms he can. Which means it's a crackfic, folks. PreRENT songfic, RogerCollins friendship.
Notes: GAWD WHAT IS THIS RAJAH CHICK'S PROBLEM!? ANOTHER FIC ABOUT THE PLAID PANTS!! This is a songfic to the song "Bad in Plaid" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Yes, it's a real song, I had to change a couple words to fit Roger/RENT instead of the Bosstones/Boston.
Special thanks to GrapetheApe!!
"I just don't fucking understand you, Roger. Friends are supposed to understand each other... be down with each other how they live... but you, man? For the life of me, I don't get you." He muttered with a shake of his head as he regarded the rocker, who lay sprawled on the couch, guitar lazily thrown in his lap, plaid-clad legs dangling.
"Wha'dya mean?" Roger asked Collins in a bored tone, as if didn't really care to know exactly what it was that Collins didn't understand about him, he was only asking to humor his friend.
"Well..." Collins started, pointing. "You sit here, the definition of lethargy, writing half-ass rock songs bereft of meaning that you'll scream throatily to hoards of women later tonight, wearing those fucking plaid pants of yours on your skinny white ass…"
Roger nodded, looking up at the professor. "So? I don't get it, Collins. You seem to understand me very well, actually. Now... if you don't mind... I'm trying to half-ass a rock song here."
"Oh well excuse me for trying to strike up a conversation! This almost makes me wish I had gone out filming with Mark!" The decidedly not amused man replied hotly.
"Yeah, right. You'd rather film bums than ridicule my lifestyle? Thomas Collins? Passing up an opportunity to act like an ass? Never."
"You're right. It's too fun." Collins agreed plaintively, before taking a seat. "So... why do you wear plaid pants anyway?"
It had only been for the sake of conversation. But Roger looked at him like he'd sprouted big fat purple bunny ears... out of his ass.
"Seriously, man. I really don't get the whole plaid dress code... is it supposed to be masculine? Or do you like how it's almost tight enough to split at the seams?"
"Only a gay guy would notice that."
Collins sneered. "Actually, I think that even the women back in the rear of the crowd getting slammed can see that, Rog. And you know that don't you? You LIKE it."
Roger leaned back on the couch, stretching one leg and strumming a random chord on the guitar. "Okay, so I like looking good for the chicks. I'm not afraid to admit that, man."
"And I guess it works? I mean, fuck... all those girls are clearly smitten... I see that lust in their eyes, dude."
Roger laughed then. "What can I say? I know what makes me look even more amazing than I already look."
Collins smirked. "Sure, okay. I should have known it was all about the ladies with you, Roger. You self-absorbed, shallow, conceited asshole."
"Now wait just a minute." Roger cut in, sounding highly offended. "Call me an asshole, because I like to look at myself in the mirror... for twenty minutes. BUT NEVER EVER, Thomas Collins, assume that my reasoning for wearing plaid is SIMPLY because I want to look good. Because man, its so much more than that."
"Oh, really?" Collins asked, intrigued.
"Yeah, it's like... fucking poetry, man." Roger ran a hand through his hair. "It's like...well, it's difficult to put into mere words…"
"Tell me, Roger. Help me understand." Collins said slowly, in his therapist voice, taking out a notepad and pulling on some fake glasses. "What can plaid do for you?" Roger sat completely up then, placing his guitar on the floor beside him. He stroked his pant legs lovingly before standing.
"Well, you see... polk-a-dots just don't go." He began to sing quietly, almost to himself.
With a disdained shake of the head, Collins expressed his agreement. "Oh no, you in polka-dots? Nope... just no."
"... slick black shoes hurt my toes..." Roger murmured almost pathetically, like a four-year old complaining about wearing dress shoes. "Paisley makes me nauseous..." "Me too!" Collins put in, scribbling on the notebook.
Roger looked up, suddenly smiling. "When I'm down with plaid, be cautious!" "Oh no..." Collins gasped in mock fear.
"Fucked up stripes... just don't feel right." Roger went on, walking toward the closet and rifling through clothes. "...when I'm chillin' with Mark late at night." He held up a striped sweater of Mark's, with a face that reminded Collins of the time that Maureen accidentally ate a peanut butter, ketchup and sardine sandwich... dunked in milk.
Collins burst out laughing at the memory.
"Money, cars, more money, no!" Roger half-yelled, as if the thought were ridiculous. "Won't make me leave my plaid at home!"
"Why?" Collins inquired, through chuckles.
"'Cause I'm bad in plaid!" Roger answered, as if it were the most obvious thing since the really ancient people in Europe discovered the world was round.
"You are?" Collins goaded, quite amused.
"You know I'm bad in plaid, well, I'm..." Roger tried to explain desperately. His eyes fell upon an article of clothing in the closet and he yanked it out, brandishing it like it was a bag of dog shit.
"Time spent in Hawaiian shirts!" He lamented, waving the blue floral print tee around. "Some mistakes were even worse!" He tossed the shirt, sending it sailing toward Collins, landing on the couch.
"Like acid washed jeans!" Roger continued, throwing a raggedy-looking pair over his shoulder, disgusted. "Or skinny ties, wrap around sunglasses on my eyes!" The objects fell into place in the discard pile. Roger turned, looking gleeful.
"Now plaid is the color of my soul...so I wear it, from head to toe!" He declared to Collins, who nodded.
"Breakin' microphones for the crowd," He did a kung-fu kick, knocking over Mark's camera tripod that only cost him an arm and a leg.
Poor Mark the soon to be limbless albino freak.
"I'm bad in plaid and I'm plaid and I'm proud!" Collins winced a little at the broken tripod, but laughed nonetheless.
"Bad in plaid, I'm so bad in plaid, well I'm-..." Roger sang breathlessly.
"Is that all?" Collins asked him.
Roger shook his head, looking almost choked up.
"The plaid means more than the color of my clothes..." He started, swallowing. Collins swore he saw moisture collecting at the corners of his green eyes.
"What's it mean, Roger?"
"It means everyone is welcome Roger's fucking amazing rock shows!" Roger yelled excitedly, jumping onto the couch with a booty shake.
"Oh... okay then." Collins remarked, a little disturbed.
"Feel free to represent on the sexy Roger's stage! He don't care about your race, color or about your age! You just gotta wanna want it and ya gotta wanna move it!" Roger screamed to the world, dancing wildly and flailing his plaid-ified legs in the air. "So... that's why you wear plaid?" Collins asked, with a stirring note of finality in his voice.
"It's a plaid plaid world and I'm trying to prove it everywhere I go!" Roger told his friend honestly, plopping down on the couch and slinging an arm over the anarchist's shoulders.
Then, he cupped a hand over his mouth and yelled toward the open window that overlooked the fire escape. "As long as you're united with the plaid boy from NY, then you're all invited! Everywhere you go let's all get united with the plaid boy from NY and you're all invited! Bad in plaid, bad in plaid, bad in ... PLAID!"
Roger heaved a long breath, satisfied.
Collins shook his head as the rocker then turned toward him, grinning. "So... Collins, now do you understand me?"
"Oh... I understand perfectly."
And he flipped the notebook over.
"What's the final analysis?" Roger asked curiously, leaning in to read.
He peered at the professor's slanted scrawl.
Roger Davis, you seem to be chronically, clinically and terminally insane.
"Well FUCK!" Roger screamed. "Tell me something I don't fucking already know, smarty pants!"
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(Jedi Mind Trick)