Title: The (Bleep) Monologues
Fandom: 30 Rock
Characters: Jack and Liz
For: Freaks and Geeks Ficathon at LiveJournal. Prompt: 30 Rock, Liz & Jack, "I got a letter from Rosemary."
Summary: I tried Rosemary. I tried.
Feedback: It does a body good.

Liz comes bustling through into Jack's office just as he's having his suit fitted.

"Jack, it's favor time. You will not believe—"

"If I wear this tie, will it make me look… paternal?"

"Paternal? Like 'coochie, coochie, coo, you are so cute" paternal or like 'I'll change the baby's diaper, Avery…you go back to bed' paternal?"

"More like, 'no dynasty is complete without an heir' paternal."

Liz's eyes glaze over in non-response. Jack turns to her.

"Lemon, persons of my social status hire nighttime nannies, and if you ever hear the words 'coochie' or 'coo' come from my mouth—in any context—I would like you to pack me up in that empty hope chest you've been saving for when you actually get married," eye roll, "with a bag of Sabor de Soledad chips until I gradually wither away and die." He motions for his tailor to leave the room.

Liz perks up. "I'll have you know my hope chest is, in fact, not empty. It has my ham juice wedding dress in it and a—"

"What did you want Lemon?" Jack interrupts.

"Ah," she says, becoming newly angry and holding up her latest script. "You have got to fight this. The FCC is challenging our use of the word 'vagina' because it is being used in a—quote unquote—vulgar context."

"And that context would be?" Jack asks, holding alternate ties up to his neck as he gazes at himself in the mirror.

"A skit about a woman who is 66 years old."

Jack begins to cough furiously before running over to his drink cart and pouring himself a shot of vodka. He knocks it back hurriedly before squinting and beating his chest.

"Lemon, that is absolutely repugnant."

"Why, because the woman is 66?'

He clutches his chest, this time taking his vodka with two—what appear to be—aspirin. Or vicodin. After a moment, he regains his composure.

"You won't win this one, Lemon. We are the top network in the nation—"

"Third," she mutters.

"And we didn't get that way from pandering to over-the-hill grandmothers who think red lipstick and a varicose vein operation make them 26 again. Because they most certainly do not."

"Wow, Avery really has a lot to look forward to with you."

"The answer is no," he says, and he saunters back to his desk. "Is there anything else?"

"Pleeeeaaase, Jack," Liz pleads as she approaches his desk. "I don't want to rewrite this skit," she moans, then suddenly smiles brightly. "It was sent to me by an ex-idol of mine."

"Who, Bea Arthur?"

"Um, she's dead, and actually it was sent to me by Rosemary."

Eye roll of all eye rolls.

"She wrote me a letter, Jack. She's been going to therapy, eating more roughage, dating age-appropriate men … her outlook has really improved. There's this one really funny part in the skit about Spanx—"

"Lemon, honestly, you have to choose better idols. Rosemary is not mentor material. She's more like a… a… deranged, lame racehorse that should be shot right there on the field in front of the spectators."

"Do you just hate women?"

"No. I find Avery rather delightful."

Liz sighs and drags herself to the door. "I tried Rosemary. I tried."

"Wait Lemon," he says. She stops and turns back around, not daring to hope.

"There is a way around this. You could just use the term c—" He chokes on the word.

Liz clasps her hands and smiles. "Coochie it is!" she exclaims and rushes for the door.