Salvador Martinha: Tip of the Tongue (2016) - full transcript

A NETFLIX COMEDY SPECIAL

What's up, pussies?

It feels so good to say this, "pussies."

How are you? Feeling warm?

Welcome to the show. You know my style.

If you feel like interacting, go ahead.

I usually invite the audience to interact.
However, I address them

and how do they react?
Like a penis after working out.

How are you doing?

How's the front row? Any old ladies? No?

Cool. We have a gentleman here
missing a tooth.



Who's missing a tooth?

That little piggy went to the market.

After the show, he'll be like:

I always check for old ladies here.
I once did a show in Montijo,

and this old lady wanted to die
in the middle of the show.

"I'm going to die now, during the show."

It was awkward,
because she didn't die straight away.

She could have died
and that would've been it.

But, no. Maybe you don't know this,
but when old ladies feel unwell,

they will only stop
when they find a piece of furniture.

That's what happens.
"God, I'm not feeling well.

I need to find furniture.

I really need some... Good Lord."

If you drop an old lady in the desert,
she'll do the Paris-Dakar, easily.



Who won the Paris-Dakar?
Carlos Sousa in the Mitsubishi?

No, Mrs. Arminda.

I was looking for bald guys.

No baldies here today.
I wanted to ask how do bald men deal

with people that not only have hair,
which is frustrating,

but they also waste it
by trimming it on one side

and leaving a dead beaver on the other.

A gust of wind.

Yeah, like a boss. Like a poodle.

We're in a beautiful theater,

Teatro da Trindade,
a 19th century theater.

So, thank you for coming back
from the 21st century.

You went through a lot.

Traffic, two world wars, cholera,

everything with Cavaco Silva.

You didn't have it easy.

I have a request.

There's a lady over there on the phone.
I'd like you to turn it off.

Cell phones disturb the show.

I know that you just got here,

so you decided to send that last emoji
we usually send.

Just some emoji.

It's Saturday and you don't want
to limit your options.

"Are you going out tonight?"

"Yeah, not really. I'll send an emoji.

I'm a wild one.

With me, you never know.
I'm a wild one, I have no rules."

You think you're not disturbing the show,

but here, because of the light
of your screen, I'm seeing a ghost.

So, please, stop it.

In the 19th century, this wouldn't happen.
How did people disturb a show?

How did people disturb the audience?
They didn't.

The worst thing would be a fan.

People used fans.

The person next to him would be like,
"How rude. Did you see that gust of wind?

These savages."

I think that...

back in the day, we were much happier
without technology. We were happier.

Let's go back, for example...

For example, nowadays,
you have an iPhone 6.

You get an iPhone 6.

You want to have a foot in the future
and another foot in the past.

iPhone 6. Dude, I got an iPhone 6.

That smartphone has great colors, dude.

You can really see the magenta.

You see lots of colors you've never seen.
Awesome.

First photo you take,
you look at the photo.

What would look cool here?
A black-and-white filter.

You get an iPhone for Christmas.

You're happy and all.
This could use a case. What would be cool?

One of those old cassettes, right?
That would be cool.

And you don't have to go
to the 19th century.

We were happier
when we had simpler phones.

Remember the Nokia?

Weren't we happy with Nokias?

Nokias were cooler.

I was happier with a Nokia.

Let's list the pros and cons
of Nokia and an iPhone.

The Nokias were the tough kid...

whose father would say,
"There's a war in Syria,"

and he'd say, "I'm on it.

Who do I have to kill?"

iPhones are those pussies who hide
in the toilet. "I don't want to go to war!

I want to study the arts!

I love aesthetics and colors, Dad!

I love Time Out magazine."

Even in terms of their construction,
Nokias were tough.

You could throw a Nokia
from the ninth floor...

you'd pick it up and it would be intact.

Hard as a Bollycao
sold at a grocery store.

Bollycaos from 1998...

with old stickers.

If you drop an iPhone now,

it gets scratched everywhere.
It gets covered in lines.

The iPhone gets more lines than spending
a week on a Portuguese soap opera.

Only some will get this one.

Nokias had something impressive.

Who do we have here that's more
on the young side? Sixteen years olds?

They can't go to theaters yet.

Him? I like when they point
almost shoving the finger through the eye.

"Here's my friend. Roast him.

Roast him."

What's your name?

João, you're screwed.

Your friend screwed you.
João is a common name. Want to change it?

João, how old are you?

Seventeen is good.
It's illegal, but let's run with it.

That's what they said in Elvas.

João, you go online--

Thank you for the late laugh.

People that have MEO laugh later.

João, search for something the Nokias had
and you don't know what they are.

Google this, "keys."

It's like these little pillows,

you'd hit A and an A would come up.

With iPhones, everything is touchscreen.

Our daily lives are doing to the iPhone
what we do to a vagina.

Here's how it is.

"Are you comfortable, honey?"

The whole day doing this.
How did you measure...?

How did you measure
a Nokia's battery life?

It was actually cool.

Dude, how much battery do you have?

One stick.

And that stick would last forever.

You could go to Covilhã

and there was that bipolar friend
who kept calling us all the time.

Then you got back,
"How much battery do you have?"

One stick.

Damn. Wasn't it impressive?
The battery of the iPhone--

First, you never leave home--
You always have to have the charger.

Sixty-seven percent, 77 percent,
80 percent.

Fuck 100 percent, I left with 83 percent.

I'm a warrior.
Yeah, I left my house with 83 percent.

So what? Fuck society!

You go out, have a coffee,
and the iPhone starts complaining.

"Dude, I'm at 50 percent."

Damn, man.

Their batteries die out as quickly
as a fatty at her first Zumba class.

Go, Raquel!

And do you think it's normal
to react this way when your battery dies?

We're junkies.

It's like this, your battery dies...

"Does anyone have a charger?

I need a charger for my 4.

Can anyone help me out?

I need my fix!"

It's like this.

Even when it's about to die.

This is when they show class.

How did the Nokia die?
A Nokia would die with class.

A Nokia would warn the owner before.

"Dude, I don't feel well.
There's only a stick left.

I'm probably dying. Are you okay?
You should call people.

All right, I'm dying. One, two-- Ready?

Let's go. Both at the same time.

One, two--"

And it would die.

My Nokia died, it's all right,
we spoke before. He told me.

As for the iPhone, we can't trust it.

Its battery can die at any given moment.
It's like it was shot by a sniper.

And she's fake. Thirty-seven percent.

"Are you okay, iPhone?" "Doing great.
I'm really comfortable, relaxed.

I'll still last--"

Technology now has a greater impact...

across all generations.
All generations are influenced by it.

For example, old people.

Old people can use smartphones,

but even their relation with computers...

Everyone has an uncle who calls you,
asking for help.

And their description over the phone,
when you try to help your grandfather...

with their computer questions,
is very similar to being on acid.

"This is blinking!

It's blinking, grandson.

It went black!

It's all black! Look now!

I see a beautiful sky."

And there's the children. João is hooked.

You need lots of Internet,
it's like smack.

If I turn off the Wi-Fi signal,
you're like a fish...

out of the fish tank.

Imagine João's mother--
Do you take vacation, João?

Yeah? Cool. That would have been awkward.
"No, we don't have that."

The sad story of João...

a boy without vacation.

Where do you go?

You don't know?

You tend to block out Quarteira
from your memory.

Are we talking Algarve or what?

I don't know either. This is awkward.

It's awkward for everybody.

I'll ask again. João...

where do you spend your vacation?

Option A:
I'm poor and I don't go on vacation.

Option B: I go on vacation to...

Algarve, that's okay.

Imagine your mother tells you:

"Mommy has something to tell you.
I'm worried.

Times are tough and our house
in Algarve doesn't have Internet.

This will be horrible...
but you'll have to live."

Seven days, you said?

It was awkward.

And grown-ups.

Grown-ups are the age group
in the worst position.

Old people are out.

Mr. Adolfo, you're out.
You're out of this world.

Children are hooked. As for grown-ups...

They're like, "Am I in or not?
I don't know. Let's see if I am."

They don't know. My dad mistakes every
sound from the street with its phone.

"Is it mine?"

Adults with technology are like
that uncle that takes us to the club...

with a pullover, thinking he won't
stand out among the kids...

that he's discrete.

He immediately asks for a drink that
gives him away. "A Malibu on the rocks."

Then he starts dancing and it's like:

That uncle with tics.

My dad is like this.

A few days ago, he did this, "Son..."

My dad doesn't see me as a son anymore,
he sees me as an IT technician.

"Son, come here.
I received this invitation,

and they don't send this to anybody.

Let's talk about this.

I want to have your opinion.

Son, what's this 'Whatsoup'?"

What a guy.

He made a WhatsApp and soup mash-up.

How do you explain WhatsApp
to your father?

The good thing about WhatsApp
is the group chat, with lots of people.

I have lots of groups.
Xico's Birthday, BPI's Wedding,

Where Will We Bury the Old Guy,
that's another one.

In the meantime,
Duarte Lima left this group.

But everyone has groups, Dad.
Even Sócrates has a group.

The Lena Group.

And you have women's groups, men's groups.
We have to tone it down with men's groups.

I'm starting to think it's going too far.

It's tiring. Men's groups on WhatsApp
should be rated R.

And they should come with a warning.

We can't open those conversations
just anywhere. They should say:

"Are you sure you want to open this group?

Keep in mind you're in the bus.

The lady next to you may not feel like
seeing a gigantic dick. All right?"

It's jokes about women,
pictures, Latin butts.

Small games.

I don't know about you, but my cell phone,
by default, saves all the photos.

It saves the photos to the camera roll.
I have the camera roll of a mechanic.

I download more naked women every day
than Ukrainian vans

outside strip bars in Bragança.

My phone is filled with nudes.

Then, I have a sensitive side.

If I want to show someone my daughter...

Thank you.

Suddenly I have to play the game
Where's My Baby Among the Sluts?

I have to look for my baby between Nadia,
O Jogo Magazine...

the maids at MAIN.

We have to talk about something,
someone has to address this,

which is the new WhatsApp feature
to send audio files.

We were not prepared for this. We weren't.

This is what I get:

"Dude, meet us at Lux!"

I don't what this in my life.

People don't care about sending
good quality audio files.

When we send someone else shitty sounds...

you're basically being like D.A.M.A.

It's like:

He has spoken.

Parents on Facebook are bad enough.

Let's start with the mothers.

No, mothers.

Go inside, mothers.

We see your comments.

They're proud mothers.

Proud of their daughters.

Photo of her daughter at the beach,
first comment, "Mommy loves you!

Mommy loves you so much, baby!

You're the prettiest of the bunch.
I'm sorry to say it here.

Mommy's so proud of you.
I'd eat your blood, if I had to.

Mommy loves you. I love you.
Mommy really loves you.

Mommy would eat your boogers.

Mommy would do a black gangbang with you,
if I had to.

Because Mommy loves you,
I'd do anything for you.

Mother love!
Mother love above anything else!

Let's gross everybody out with our love.

I'm sorry if went too far, baby.
But Mommy...

You know mothers.

A mother is a warrior.

A mother loves her daughter.
I'd even lick you.

Mother love."

Then, you have dads on Facebook.

Dads don't understand Facebook.

They think it's like a bar,
that no one sees.

No one knows what they do. But I do.

"This is just for me, right?"

Suddenly, it's noon...

and I see on my Facebook feed:

"Miguel Martinha
added Marcela Cavalcante."

I go to her profile and it's clearly
one of those Brazilian gold diggers.

This is her profile pic.

If the photo could talk, she'd say,
"Want some titties, mister?"

I didn't want to say it,
but I've been getting bigger every year.

Every year, it's like--
It's not really me.

Other people noticed.
I pass by and they're like:

"Dude, you're getting fat!"

Mind you, I'm not fat.

I'm chubby.

A fat guy is someone who just gave up.

You play food handball with them.
You throw doughnuts at fat guys.

"This one's for the lard-ass."
And the fat guy eats it up.

I'm just chubby. A chubby person is like,
he doesn't want it.

He fights it. "I can't.
I'd like to eat, but I can't do it."

Then, food starts talking to me.

Palmiers start saying,
"Salvador, indulge yourself.

Eat me. Let it go." And I don't want that.

Do you know how a guy realizes he's fat?

This is how I realized I was chubby,
not fat.

I was watching a sunset.

An Instagram sunset.
All sunsets are Instagram sunsets.

I was watching it and thinking about ideas
for my life. What if I opened a kiosk?

I get the most genius ideas.

Suddenly, my girlfriend comes up to me
from behind.

She starts fondling me.

And makes me feel like I have tits.

And kills it with this great line:

"How cute."

I reacted like a girl being harassed,
"Stop it!

Don't touch my breast!"

You know the problem about...?

About being chubby?
Honestly, I wouldn't give a shit.

But my friends are annoying.

They're like the body police.

They're body inspectors.

Before, men would look at chicks.
"She's hot!"

Yeah, I said the same. "I dig chicks."

We love chicks. Chicks, dude. Yeah.

Not anymore. Now, they like to notice
their friends' bodies.

You know when May comes

and you get the first beach day
at Caparica?

When you're like a ghost, really pasty.

"I'm Casper, the friendly ghost."

On that day, you're so white
that you become a reference point.

Like, "Where can I get ice cream here?"
"See that white man? It's right ahead."

On that day, because of my body,
I'm afraid.

I'm the dude who arrives
with the sports paper.

Sunglasses. I check if the water is cold.

I avoid it, you know?

I don't take my T-shirt off.
"I'll be at the bar.

I want to have a Cocoloco."

You hesitate and you end up going.
At some point, you have to go.

"Look, Salvador has titties!

Nice rack you have there, dude!

Nice rack!"

Nowadays, men touch each other a lot.

I'm at the beach and my friends
start touching me. "Nice, dude!"

"Attaboy!"
Dude, no. That's uncomfortable.

"Look at that..."

This is joking. Then it turns serious.
You're having lunch and he's like:

"Bring us some more bread."
"You ordered bread?"

"You ordered bread? Your problem."

Dude, take it easy.

And there's a sentence
that haunts me every night.

"Be careful with carbs at night."

They're obsessed.
"Careful with carbs at night."

It's like Gremlins.

What will happen
if you have carbs at night?

You're in a dark alley.

Suddenly, some pasta jumps you
and rapes you.

"You wanted it, chubby."

"You wanted it, chubby. Plumpy"

"This is so good, pasta.

But it's wrong, isn't it?
What we're doing is not right."

Dude, you need to go on a diet.

You need a diet. I have just the one.

I looked it up,
on Ágata's What's-Her-Face blog.

She's top.

Now, all nutritionists are top. Top!

She studied in Mexico.

She can prepare tequilas.

This is her diet. Focus.
I'll say this only once.

You wake up...

When people tell you about diets,

it's like everything is great
from that day on.

You wake up. You just wake up.

As if you suddenly wake up feeling great.

Not like, "I'm waking up" forcefully.
No, you just wake up.

Dude, it starts out great.

I just woke up.

You wake up and you're already good.

And you eat one chia seed.

And you wait.
You have to know how to wait.

At 4:30, when you get the munchies...

you eat half a nut.

At night, you can eat a little more.

You open a container of food,
like baked beans...

and you take a whiff.

Spare me your stupid diets.

There's only one diet I tried that worked,
the Pablo Escobar diet.

It's hard for me to lose weight,
but I gain weight really quickly.

I gain 7 kilos while losing a few grams.

Did it ever occur to you
that if you sniff grams you'll lose kilos?

I came up with this diet.

It's 50 euros a week,
but it's a good investment. Cool.

Cool, cool.

There's a reason
why I'd like to lose weight.

The pants nowadays.

You know the problem,
there are no normal pants anymore.

I ask for normal pants at a store
and it's like:

"He wants normal pants, Paulo!"

"We don't have that."

Pants are all skinny.

Even the name is annoying. "Skinny."

"Skinny."

How are these pants?
You put them on and your thighs

are so tight that it feels like
there's a koala asphyxiating them.

Asphyxiating the thigh. "Die, bitch!

You're going to die, bitch!"

This part is kind of cool,
it looks like a pine cone.

Ass like Simão Sabrosa's.

You get the flexibility of a special kid.
"Pick up the paper, Júlio."

Your testicles, with all the fuss,
get separated and go travel.

You know those blogs,
Two Testicles Around the World?

They post stuff and whatnot.

I don't know if you noticed,
but it was almost impossible...

for any of us not to go
to a Summer festival.

It was almost impossible.

Portugal sucks at math.
Here's what happened.

"Rogério, we fucked up.

There are more festivals than people.

That was so stupid, man."

Why are festivals so popular?

I wanted to go into this,
because of a small little lie.

We pretend to be great music lovers,

but we're not.

That's a lie. You have to be strong
to hear this. But we're not.

We spend the whole year listening
to commercial crap. Bring it on.

We say we're eclectic...

but we only listen to commercial music.
June comes around, the festivals start.

We grow a mustache.

We get full rim eyeglasses.

And we become music experts.

And lie to everybody.

Have you seen the lineup this year?

Awesome lineups.

We're getting great music in Portugal.

Portugal is really top. Portugal is top.

And we make shit up.

I'm thinking of going to Paredes de Coura.

I want to see The Poppers.

They're half banjo, half electro,
half I'm lying to your face.

I'm thinking of going to Vilar de Mouros.
I am.

I want to see The Chairs in the Winds.

Guys, let's stop lying. Let's just stop.

Think about it.

Actual music lovers
don't really go to festivals.

They go to specific concerts.

The same way a food lover--
Someone who likes food, what does he do?

He wakes up, just like that...

and heads off to Covilhã
to have some loin.

Covilhã has the best loin.

In my case, I know nothing about food.
Where do I go? To a buffet.

Right? I'm chubby, I go to the buffet.

It's all for me. I like everything.
Potato salad? Yeah.

Cheese? I accept.

Roast beef? Please.

Puff pastry? Beautiful.

Poo? Why not?

Slather me with poo.

It's the same with summer festivals.
We're kind of dazed.

I've been thinking and thinking,

why are festivals so popular?

Why are festivals so popular?
And I got it.

Micro shorts.

Micro shorts.

This is what fuels these festivals.

I'm talking about micro shorts
that start to look like...

In 2025,
you know how micro shorts will be?

A stamp on the clitoris.

"Don't I look great?

It's in fashion. This is top."

We're not there yet,
but we're at a stimulating stage for men.

Now, you see these shorts...

it's like XSXSXS extra slutty.

And I love this, they tear up the shorts.

Why do they tear them up? It's like they
were running from a rapist. "Stop it!

Stop it."

And then they pull the shorts up
to the belly button.

They look like a crane
just lifted a group of chicks.

"It's to unload at the Alive."

They're bipolar micro shorts.

From here on up, they're conservative nuns
who frown upon things.

From here on down,
they're hardcore party girls.

Créu! Créu, créu, créu!

Another great little lie in Portugal...

our taste in museums.

João, what's the last museum you visited?

João, what was the last museum
you visited?

The Sporting Museum?

You screwed me, João.

I was about to say that isn't art,
but sporting is an exception.

Still, I can't give you a pass on this.

Victory Cups are not art.

The last museum you visited
was the Sporting Museum.

It was cool, an interesting project.

But you don't visit actual museums.

You don't. You know why?
Because you couldn't care less.

If you go with your denouncing friend,
the one who said, "Him!

Make fun of him!" What's his name?

He doesn't know.

"I'm not comfortable..."

Ricardo, I'm criticizing you, too.

You and Ricardo go to Madrid
and what does Ricardo say?

"Dude! Let's go to Prado Museum!"

Here, zero.

Abroad, they want that option.

"New York? We have to visit the MoMA.

I love art. I love it." No, they don't.

Cheaters.

Liars. Museums are boring.

Museums are boring.

Why do you think museums
have so many emergency exits?

It's to run at any given moment.
"Fire! Fire, this is boring as hell!"

And everyone scrambles.

You get to the museum.

You get there...
what's the first annoyance there?

You're not too excited to begin with.

A complete description that size.

A monster describing the whole exhibit.
You get there

and you have to read
the whole description.

And there's always a friend who reads it.

"It's important you read." "You think?"

"Read it!

It may be important, trust me. Read it."

And you pretend you're reading.

Most people only see those many letters
at the eye doctor's.

"I see an X, I see an S."

This comes next. So many letters.

And we pretend we're reading it.

How do we reveal we're not reading?

We do eye rappel.

We go like this.

Yeah, I'm reading. Sure I am.

And your friend is like,
"Did you read it?"

"Yeah." "And what did it say?"

"It was about the exhibit."

What do we like in a museum?

We like to belittle the artists.

To scorn the whole thing.

You're annoyed and you scorn the exhibit.

You get there like a turner.

"What's this?

I could do this.

This is just corks, wire and crayons.
I could do this.

How's this art?

Is the fire extinguisher art?"

We're childish at the museum.

Suddenly, you're alone with a painting.

What do you do?

The security guard comes.

"It's not what you think."

Museums have one cool thing...
the secret room.

Suddenly,
there's something almost cool there.

"Look, a secret room!"

Even pulling the curtain is cool.

"Yeah, it's dark! Dark.

Dark, dark, dark, yeah!"

Then you walk in and you get to a room

where they're projecting a video.

A projection of the sea.

Waves coming and going.

That's wrong.
Museums don't invest in fun stuff.

You walk into the room
and there's a Frankenstein monster.

"Follow me."

Or someone more fun.

"Want to play the grope game?
Let's go! Grope who you can."

No. It's a room and there's a man looking.

And it's a video of the waves
coming and going.

Waves coming and going. Boring as hell.

I'd like to have a new job.

Screenwriter for museum videos.

And I'd spice things up a little.

Waves going, waves coming.

Waves going, waves coming.

Waves going and you'd see
the academic dresses, just to...

These are just my ideas.
You can take them or...

There are two ways you can see a museum.

There's the nerds, they're like a train,
they stop at every station.

They see a painting and they'll stop.

The Mona Lisa.

They spend so much time
looking at the painting...

it's like they're playing
First to Laugh Loses.

At any given moment...

"You laughed, bitch!

You laughed, I saw you."

And then there are those
who see the museum on the go.

Fernando Pessoa once said,
"I saw like I was starving."

These guys see like they're starving.

They put on their Nikes and off they go.

"Saw the MoMA in 14 minutes!

Got everything in 14 minutes.

Awesome."

And you think, "This guy's clueless.

He's clueless in New York.

Running around in here?"

Then you're like, "I envy this dude."

He saw it in 14 minutes,
I had to put up with it for three hours.

I want my revenge.

I can't walk out of here
and find him eating and having fun.

And I was an idiot.

I want my revenge.

I'll pretend something happened
and it was great.

I'm feeling sad.

Once the doors open,
I change my expression.

"Dude, you missed out!

What an experience!

My man!

Thank you, God!

What a blast!

Outstanding!"

"What happened?"

"Dude, I went to this private room."

"I was there, too."

"A different one.
A different one, nobody saw it.

I sit down. I heard a voice saying,
'Sit down,' so I did.

It was dark. Out of nowhere...

out of nowhere...

they start giving me a blowjob.

I'm talking about a first-class blowjob!

It was actually exhausting.

Boom, boom, boom.

'Maybe that's enough.' 'No, we insist.'"

Boom, boom, boom.

"How's that possible?
Why didn't I get that?"

"Dude, you're not paying attention.

Did you read the description carefully?"

Another great little lie
is our aggressiveness.

The Portuguese have said this for years...

"We're cool, but if shit happens,
if push comes to shove..."

We see that in traffic.

With the window up, we're bad-asses.
"What? I'll knock you the fuck out.

I'll knock you the fuck out."

With the window open,
"I may have been rude. Let's calm down.

I was wrong. This isn't what I wanted."

We're like,
"The Portuguese, when they push us..."

"If there was a war, the Portuguese..."

It's a lie. In our last revolution,
instead of bullets, we had carnations.

Our military were armed
by the flower lady.

"A carnation for you, and one for you."

We're such bad-asses.

Even at our family life...

we're pussies.

We're pussies.

We have a neighbor,
one of those with three kids, you know?

"Tó, hit me!" "Shut up, bitch!"

Three years of this.

One day, he explodes.

"That's it! Let me go!"

"Stop it! What are you doing?"
"Let me go!

Let me go, I'm going."

Gets the broom.

"I'll show him."

Three taps with the broom.

Right on the ceiling.

On our wall.

The neighbor goes blue.

He panics,
because of the beast he messed with.

We want to go to work...

and there's always a car double-parked,
blocking our car.

What do we do? We key the car?
Flatten his tire? Worse.

We pull their windshield wipers up.

The people damaged by BES.

Damaged by BES.

People who lost 200,000 euros,
150,000 euros.

Lost their life savings. What do they do?

Take a gun and kill a banker?
Gather some money and have him killed?

Worse.
"Let's go to the office supply store.

Cards and markers. Let's go.

'Scoundrels!'

'Villains!' 'Corrupt!'"

They rub the cards against the police
who won't let them get to the bankers.

"Scoundrels!"

Can you imagine the bankers?
They can't even sleep.

Just from thinking
of that "scoundrels" in bold.

We're not aggressive.
João and Ricardo. João...

João and Ricardo, your music band.

Imagine this. João, Ricardo.

The war starts tomorrow.

Are you in?

You're not sure?

Need me to send you the Facebook event?
Yes, no, or maybe.

You're not entirely sure?

You're saying yes,
but you have no idea what it is.

A war. I'm the same when it comes to that.

I'm not mature.
We're not ready to go to war.

Imagine you're in a war.

You wade ashore on Normandy.

Go, you have your riffle.

To shoot,
you press the square or the circle?

You step on a land mine.

I apologize for this position.

We could do a hashtag "stepped on a mine."

You know what this reminds me of?

When women pose for a magazine...

they come up with these positions
to look thinner.

"I'm so thin."

So, I stepped on a mine.

I have to stay there. What do I do?

Blow myself up and kill enemies?

No. I'll open a kiosk.

Good afternoon. O Jogo for you, yes?

Nova Gente.

There's one thing I hate.

Going out for dinner.

Lots of friends invite me for that.

"Let's have dinner out. We're 25."
"Yeah!"

So boring. I don't like it.

I'm always surrounded by people
that can be boring.

There's a bucket, like in a raffle,
and I always get five boring people.

What do I do at a dinner
with five boring people?

Get up and leave an empty seat?
Can't do it.

There should be a cool system
to have dinner out,

like having a rolling table.

You'd have a button and if the person
was boring, "You're boring. Bye."

Otherwise, count me out.

What I really like
is to throw dinner parties at home.

A good home dinner.

That's what I think is cool.

I just don't like the part
where two hours before dinner,

women treat our place
as if it was museum...

in which you can't do a thing.

Don't touch.

Be still.

Give me your paw.

Good boy.

How cute.

For women, two hours before dinner,
men are nothing but messy Labradors.

They get everything dirty.

They get things dirty
and drop crumbs everywhere.

"You went to the toilet
and got everything wet!"

"Sorry, dear. I should have done it
in the water bottle, in the living room.

Right? In the tube."

Here's the thing.

"Did you change the bed pillows?

Their order. Did you?

The nut went first, then the dove.

You messed it all up!"

What's this obsession you have
with pillows?

Having two is cool, four is acceptable,

24 is just stupid.

It's as if Joana Vasconcelos
did a piece there.

Every single day, before going to bed...

how do I remove the pillows?

I had to make it fun somehow.

I went to the market.

Actually, to the Internet.

Actually, to some shitty website.

And I bought a crane machine.

Remember those that drew teddy bears?

Except that machine annoys me.
Why? The crane sounds really strong.

When the moment of truth comes...

they're as strong as an old lady
with bad bones.

It failed.

Why do women like pillows so much?

I think I know.

It has to do with American movies.

You grow up with that imagery.

What would you see there?

Couples in romantic fights.

Romantic pillow fights.
It was cool, like, "Stop it.

Stop it."

You can't do that with Portuguese men.

"I'm sorry, sweetie."

Here's something I don't get.

During the week,
we live like starving Jews.

Bread, water, oatmeal.

Crackers with chia.

You get guests and you become aristocracy.

"Follow me, lackey.

Fetch me my great-grandmother's towel.

Fetch me the decanter.

And fetch me...

a carriage."

What is this?

Planning a dinner is hard work.

If you just don't care...

you can order out chicken.

You'll be like:

"Want to have some chicken?

Here are the pliers."

If you want to entertain guests well,
that's hard work.

And who works the hardest?

Women,
because they're more generous than men

and they can't stay out of it.

And men always pretend they're helping.

Two hours before, women stress out
and we become home ninjas.

"She won't be able to find me."

Where will they find us?
Watching Chelsea vs. Manchester.

Two hours of that.

And you're always late to help.

Everything is halfway.

"Sorry, dear. It was a nail biter."

"Now you come?"

"Sorry. But I'm here now.
What do you need?"

"You can cut the bread."

"Sure. Where's the knife?"

"You mess everything up."

"Here's the knife!"

The knife I bought-- It has a story.

--in Luxembourg, a few years ago.

Never used it. Today I will.

Sure, I'll cut the bread.

This is a man thing. Let's do this.

I'm giving my best for this relationship.

You're about to do it and you go:

"Honey, wasn't there any sliced bread?"

That's when we piss women off.

Do you know how you can tell
you pissed off a woman?

They change speed. They're like Ronaldo.

Then you chase them...

they run out of places to avoid you...

and they're like Super Mario
at the end of the level

when he's against the wall.

He keeps facing the wall.

Your guests start to arrive.

The previous week,
you couldn't even burn incense at home.

"Because of the smells. I hate smells."

Your guests arrive.

"Feel free to smoke in the living room.
We do it all the time.

Wreck yourselves up.

Go ahead, smoke. I insist.

Turn this room into a start-up
for the oncology ward.

It's cool. We have a cigarette machine.

Hit that friend and you get a pack."

There's always a friend who coughs.

"Honey, ask if they want
to drink something."

How's it going?

"João, Ricardo. Hi."

You're always together, right?

What will you drink?

Some people dare to say this:

"I don't know. Caipirinha."

Dude.

Dude, no.

At home, they drink tap water.

Tap water.

They do that thing, "Water del tap."

And he wants to make me
work the pestle in the kitchen.

Here's what I always do.

The first caipirinha... is fine.

No worries.

Second person, "I'd like a caipirinha."
Shot to the head.

And I leave the body there.

Why? It's a warning for other guests.

"I'm sorry, Raquel. There's a...

Is it just me,
or is there a body in the living room?"

"He wanted caipirinha."

"Forget I said anything."

A surprise guest.

A dude.

Out of nowhere, nowhere,

he decides to bring something
I didn't ask for.

A guitar.

And he surprises me. Excited about it.

"Look at what I brought!

A guitar!"

I don't want that.

I don't want a guitar guy at my place.

They're so annoying.
Brazilian music, Gipsy Kings.

All night, they don't know when to stop.

And then, guitar guys always draw
all the attention to them.

Always. At a certain point,
every woman is looking at him.

"Paulo plays so well, honey.

Why don't you play like that, honey?"

"Yeah, you know...

Sara Sampaio is so hot.

Why aren't you like her, honey?"

But the worst part...

It's one thing when they're
just playing for everybody.

But sometimes, out of the blue,
they focus on your girlfriend.

Sometimes, during the silence of the night

I start imagining the two of us

Suddenly, I'm the garbage man
that passed by.

Good evening. You can pass now.

Don't let guitarists into your home.

A guitarist will steal away all the women.

Actually, maybe that's why
they invented the expression

"violator."

Thank you.

We go to the table.

Again, because they're generous,
women stay closer to the kitchen.

Men, if possible,
sit where they're blocked.

"Honey, I can't. I'm blocked."

Some men are so blocked...

that the only way they could help
would be with the PUK.

João, google it, "PUK."

You don't know what that is.

The dinner goes on,
everything is taken care of.

Women don't eat, they're stressing out
because they want to please.

"Honey, relax. Enjoy the dinner.
Go with the flow.

Drink, drink."

We always want to get them drunk.

"Drink, drink. Drink, honey.

Go with the flow."

They still won't drink or relax.

"Eat something. You haven't eaten yet."
"Sure I did. I ate half a nut.

I feel full."

They won't eat. Our guests leave.

Suddenly, it's 12:55 a.m.
and you hear this little voice.

"I don't know, honey.

I feel like eating.

I don't know what."

"What, honey? What do you want to have?"

"I don't know.

Come on, stop it. Don't record this.

Are you recording?

I don't know."

"Come on, what do you want?"

"Maybe some chocolate."

And her voice, "Maybe some chocolate."

Their sweet voice just melts you.

But that's not her true voice.

They change their voice.

Their real voice is inside their head
and it's different.

"I want lots of chocolate!

I want to stuff my face with chocolate!

I want to be stoned with Raffaellos.

I'd love to be gangbanged by Kit Kats."

You know what this reminds me of?

People at the bar
with their teeth sticking out,

and their glass hits their teeth.
"Yeah?"

"What were you saying?"

I'm sorry, but you're hitting...

You're always like...

You pretend you didn't see it,
but you have to tell them.

I'll start telling them.

I want to highlight this.

Sometimes we have to make it up to women
for being generous.

Men are always compensating.

Women are always ahead
and we're like, "Honey,

I'm stressed out this month.

Next weekend we'll see.

Don't worry about it, I'll..."

The month is over and you're like,
"Two more months."

We're always compensating.

We have to learn how to do this,
"Honey..."

I learned it with my dad.

My dad is amazing, one of my references.

But there's one thing about him.

He's a cheapskate.

He knows where every cent goes.

Every single cent.

There's no Waldo cents.

"Where's that cent?" "There!"

He just knows.

As head of the family,
each year he throws a dinner.

Makes him look good.

It cleans his image.

One dinner a year.

Where does he throw this dinner?

On some popular holiday.

Makes him look like he paid
for everything.

The rides, the music,
he took care of everything.

He arranged the whole thing.

He's one of those psychos
who makes a reservation for 16 people,

but schedules a meeting the day before.

"Tomorrow's our dinner.

Everyone gets one serving.

One serving.

All right? If anyone wants
an extra serving, come talk to me.

I don't want any slipups, budget-wise."

It's true.

Happened this year.

We go out and everything.

But they brought two--

The waiter is sweating in fear.

"I'm sorry,
but there's two extra servings here."

"Maybe it was a mistake."

My dad stares at her.

As if, "Open the champagne."

We're talking 3,5 euros.

He gets this way over 7 euros.

So, we have to do it.

After women put in all that hard work,
we're like:

"Honey, this weekend
I'm taking you to a hotel."

I love a good hotel.

There's two types of hotel rooms.

The room for poor people...

and the luxury bling-bling motherfucker
in-your-face poor guy, you are poor.

How's the poor room?

It has a broken lamp.

Ready to explode at any minute.

It has a view to the wall.

There's a grasshopper there.
Looks cute, but it's gross.

It's a real grasshopper.

And it has two single beds side by side.

Poor people don't get double beds.

They get two beds together.

There's two solutions.

Either you're in love and you're like,
"Honey, I'll be adventurous.

I'll sleep on your bed.

We're spooning, because I love you.

I'm so in love with you.
Let's fuck all night long, spooning."

Or relationships that have cooled down.

Their only contact is the E.T. finger.

"Good night, honey." "Good night."

It's a boring relationship.

The luxury bling-bling motherfucker
in-your-face poor guy--

Thought I didn't memorize it?

--you get a double bed.

King size.

Yeah!

Rock it, baby. Yeah.

They have towels
that they tortured two hours before.

They twist the towels, twist them,
question them,

to the death,
twist them and turn them into swans.

Miserable swans, that have suffered.

They torture those towels
and put them back in there.

And air conditioning on max.

Rich people must be treated like peas.

The next day, the poor wake up,
because of the gap in the middle.

"Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, love the hotel."

And you get scoliosis.

Rich people wake up with a sore throat.

How do you book a room nowadays?
You don't call anymore.

We book online.

But booking online is so stressful.

Every room I see
is one of the last two available.

"Last two available!

Hurry up! Quickly!

Want to sleep in some shithole?

Want to drink Sunquick?

Want to have a toilet with a string
that you pull and end up at Machu Picchu?

Hurry up, dude!"

Okay, let's book this one.

Seven, three, it will do.

How do you choose? Using the filters.

There's several filters,
old people, foreigners,

young couples, young divorcees...

people who love Cocoloco and whatnot.

I usually apply the filter
"Young Wise-asses."

It's my filter.
I'm always looking for the best deals.

It always has cool comments.

"This hotel is so stupid.
I had everything in the mini-bar.

The next day, went to the 7-Eleven,
replaced it all and they didn't notice.

They're such idiots."

We book a room.

We get to the hotel.

A long time ago,
arriving at the hotel was sad,

because luggage didn't have wheels.

Women looked like they were carrying
a dead elephant.

Now, with the wheels,
they arrive in style.

She doesn't walk

She parades

She's top
Magazine cover

They get there looking good.

Check-in.
There's always a moment that I love.

"So nice. Can I take some candy?

Notice this finger. Some candy.

May I?

Here."

You think they don't see?

What are they going to say?

"Take it easy, Hungry Hippo.

Calm down, dude. Stressing out?"

The most stressing moment, "Your ID card."

Sure.

They look at the card, look at you.

Look at the card.

I'm always waiting for that moment...

"It's him."

It's my beard.
My beard makes me look like a terrorist.

I haven't shaved in 12 years.

This is true, 12 years without shaving.

And now I'm afraid. Imagine I shave.

What can I have hidden here?

It's like an old couch.

Let's say I shave.

"Come on, Rui Pedro!

Your mother was worried.

This is so stupid. And here you were.

You could have called."

The check-in goes well.

There's something I don't understand.
Our joy when we get to the elevator.

What are we afraid of?
We get there, we're adults.

We get to the elevator, "We're clear."

What are we hiding?

It's like at any moment
they'll find something illegal. But no.

We get to our floor
and men always think they know the way.

"Fuck, this isn't the way."

They put prank signs
showing us where the room is.

I'm in Room 301.
Your room is between 300 and 357.

Who's lost? Who doesn't know where to go?

You get to the room, the great moment.

There are two ways to enter,
like the poor, and like the rich.

How do the rich enter?

A rich person is sophisticated, divorced,

alone, dresses well,
enjoys good restaurants,

knows what he wants.

And always has cool luggage, a nice suit.

Yeah, rich people have sounds.

Green at the first try.

He know what he wants.
He can, he arrives.

A rich person is never surprised
to see the room.

He's seen it all.

"Copacabana Palace, last floor.

More of the same.

Just another Tuesday."

Takes a look out the window.

"Yeah, poor black children. The usual.

Miguel Relvas, doing well?"

This is a rich person.
Poor people are different.

They're simple, dirty.

But they have friends.

They're always together.

They get to the last floor
and it's like winning a prize.

They're ecstatic.

Their luggage looks like they're moving.

"Go to the left! Stupid. Left!

Left, go. Left, right...

Go, dude. We're here! We won the prize.

I love you, dude.

I'd eat your boogers. Love you.

Insert the card, go.

Insert, insert. Go, go."

"Red. Red."

It's the card making fun of poor people.
"Red, yeah!"

Takes a while. Then, green.

"Green!

Green, dude! I love you.

You go in first. Go, go.

Double bed to jump on!

Yeah!

Complimentary mini-cookies!

Robes, put them on!

Take pictures!

Toilet, mini-shampoos.

Mini-shampoos. Let's steal it all!"

Thank you, Teatro da Trindade.

Great audience!

Translated by:
Pedro Ribeiro