GTA V Gender-Swap Summary, Michael/Michele, Intro

Manny: Michele, you are fat. Look at how fat you are. No wonder our marriage is terrible.

Michele: What?

Manny: No wonder our daughter is so fat, when she has you to look up to. You big balloon. You whale.

Michele: So what if I’m a whale. You’re a barnacle. Barney.

Manny: But look at me! I’ve taken care of myself. I passed forty, and I’m in fact more boyishly handsome, fit, and tan, than I was when you met me.

Michele: And who paid for the tan and the chin reconstruction.

Manny: That’s beside the point. You have the means and the money to look your best, but you just whale around in the hot tub, listening to the Pointer Sisters and dreaming you were free like that crazy girl in the Breakfast Club.

Michele: You know, I’m only mildly overweight. I wouldn’t be out of place in a Dove ad.

Manny: What, are you going to roundhouse kick me for criticizing you. Again? Because that’s not exactly wifely. Or feminine.

Michele: I’m too comfortable right now.

Manny: Of course you are. I just want to know how you never have the energy to go to the gym with me, but if any of our family or the neighbors or the help or some random celebrity at the wrong place at the wrong time piss you off, you can cross Los Santos on foot in five minutes flat and kill fifteen people with your bare hands.

Michele: I got my priorities, honey. If a woman can’t be strong when she’s crossed, is she a woman at all?

Manny: Your priorities are why we want to smother you in your sleep.

Michele: You’d go down with me. Barnacle. Trophy husband. I made you. I sculpted you with my ill-gotten money. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be turning tricks for bored matrons in the outskirts, you prince of a nobody.

Manny: Whatever, Michele. I’m going to go spend some quality time with that tennis instructor you hired, the one under 25, you know, with the tight buttocks and the perfect tits, neither of which you have, you bloatmonster. Later.

Michele: I need comfort, but apologizing to Manny for breaking the dining room table again or for breaking his foot or for pissing away our savings on the stock market – that’d hurt my pride. I’ll go try to connect with my estranged daughter, instead.

Jamie (the daughter): (playing some splatty video game or the other, yelling at the screen) Hey hey! Want me to glue a strap on to your vagina and turn you into a little boy and then violate you, because I will.

Michele: Hey, Jamie, would you like to go on a jog or something? That’s what your father always wants to do when we’re on the outs.

Jamie: Jogging would require moving, and I think you’re being a crappy entitled mom trying to relive her glory days by asking me to move.

Michele: Have you been playing the same game for the past five years? I just noticed.

Jamie: No, Mom, duh, this is, like, the five-times-improved iteration of the same game. Can’t you see the resolution on the blood is much sharper? Can’t you actually see the creases in the soldier’s uniforms? Don’t you pay any attention to my hobbies at all? No wonder I hate you.

Michele: On second thought, I’m going to try to reconnect with my son instead. Look, Jamie, try doing – a sit up a day. In your bed, if you want.

Jamie: Screw off and stop wasting my time. I love me the way I am.

Tracer (the son): (through his closed door) Man, you aren’t half as attractive to the ladies as you think you are. You see the pinched up disgusted squints they get when you’re around?

(Michele barges in. Tracer is lying in his underwear on the bed, on the phone.)

Tracer: Mooom! (in the phone) Hang on, my psychotic sexually-suffocating Mom is in my room, I swear she’s never read Freud, I don’t think she can read. (tosses phone) Mooooom, I’m having private time in here.

Michele: Obviously. Why are you naked?

Tracer: I can’t believe you’re asking that! I have the right to be naked in any situation I like. I’m an adult! And I’m exceptionally skilled at exposure, so you have to stop holding me back! You have no idea how crazy the ladies get when I take off my shirt. I’ve got three thousand friends on Lifeinvader.

Michele: I’m sure you have other skills besides nudity. Don’t you? Right?

Tracer: Get out of my room, Mom. Go paint your toenails and make me hot chocolate like Moms are supposed to do. Support me. I love me the way I am.

Michele (departing, closing the door): Why does everyone in this house have only one trait? I have at least four traits. They might be all bad, but at least I have a few.


GTA V Gender-Swap Summary: Franklin/Francine, Intro

Timmy: Francine, I need me a woman who can make my house a home, not a woman who sticks Cadillacs in the rear window. Not a woman with highly variable income and highly variable enthusiasm for cooking and cleaning. Sometimes I come over and find you lighting up and watching cartoons and your shoes are on the floor and your jacket’s hanging off the couch arm and you’ve got fifteen wadded dollar bills stuck out your pocket like you pulled ‘em out of a vending machine, and there’s a pizza box sittin’ on the table, just sittin’ there. You’re not the woman for me.

Francine: Timmy, I love you, but you let me chase my first need, money, and we’re both gonna benefit from it. I’ll take care of you. You can buy yourself all the Dormeuil suits you need to impress other dudes.

Timmy: Honey, that’s not what it’s about. It’s your lifestyle. Your scuffed up shoes, your scuffed up jeans, your well-meaning attempts to actually care about other people that end up discarded whenever there’s a few bucks involved . . . I need a girl that’s stable, predictable. Who wears make up when we go out and doesn’t love driving cars more than she craves sex. I need a girl who doesn’t know how to load a handgun.

Francine: But baby. You knew all that about me before I picked you up. We grew up together, darling. You knew I don’t stand on ceremony. You knew I could hold my own in a fight. You knew I was poor.

Timmy: I thought you’d grow out of it, Frankie. But this is goodbye. I’ve hooked up with a lady doctor who cleans up awful nice and lets me decide what we drive.

Francine: Aw man, there goes Timmy. Guess I’ll go smoke a bit and send out some more resumes.

Francine’s Uncle Dennis: There you are again, taking up a whole couch that’s half mine. This is why I hate women. Selfish, eternally immature layabouts, the lot of them. You ought to be doing some cleaning, it’s in your nature, but the laziness in your nature’s even stronger, isn’t it. Look at that padding about your middle, and look at me. Not a hint of excess nothing. That’s because I’m a man and we can have perfect waterboard abs without half the effort your baby-bearing fat-nurturing gender needs. I hope you die in a car crash. I’m off to engage in some primal yawping with my male pals, and they are all male, worthless infantilized woman niece.

Lanette: Hey, Francine. I know you been sending out resumes, and I just got this sweet gig with a European ethnic caricature who needs more people who are good with cars and not asking too many questions. It’s totally legit!

Francine: What kind of cars?

Lanette: All kinds of cars! Also, I might need your help with totally-legit and completely-legal getaway driving on the side. You could be like the guy in Drive, you know, a black, female Ryan Gosling. Who doesn’t want that? I bet Timmy’d fall right back into your arms . . .

Francine: Hold up. Is there any money in any of this?

Lanette: There’s a five to ten percent chance of you making any profit at all. I mean, you also have to factor in that I’m completely unreliable and we have a 99% chance of running bloody and naked away from a massacre or an explosion or something.

Francine: I’m in.