‘Sex A.K.A.Wieners and Boobs’ is dumb fun

A few things worth knowing before you watch Sex a.k.a. Wieners and Boobs:
• Allow yourself at least a full hour at Bouchees Bistro beforehand. Those adorable mini-burgers are meant to be tenderly—lovingly—chewed, not mauled.
• Should you at any point consume a beverage during your meal (Fat Tire, $3; glass of shiraz, $4), or happen to enjoy a Red Stripe (two for $5) at the theatre, go to the bathroom before the play begins.
• Seriously.
• For the love of St. Liborius*.
• Force yourself.
Sex a.k.a. Wieners and Boobs isn’t a long production, but when you ignore director Matthew Anderson’s pre-show invitation to head to the restroom—there’s no intermission—the last minutes of the play are lost. I can remember laughing—everyone else was—and looking for another pained pee face to match my own, but not the conclusion. I was, however, able to witness my second favorite part of the play: the woman from the front row who sprinted to the bathroom, nearly knocking over castmembers returning to the stage for bows and curtsies.

My favorite part? Let’s call it a three-way tie, between the set (a wonderfully rendered beat-up garage, littered with pin-ups and cutesy references to Sex playwrights Joe Lo Truglio, Michael Showalter and David Wain); the costumes (strategically placed shower loofahs, a snorkeling mask, neon-colored Hammer pants, a little boy binkie-turned-cape); and, on this night, the kind of lightning bolt energy that comes from hitting every line, stunt and—essential to anything that’s billed as “From the team that brought us Wet Hot American Summer” and includes a scene from Glengarry Glen Ross cut-and-pasted in the middle—(punch) line, however absurd. This show is nothing without delivery.

“You’re reviewing this? Good luck,” snickered a fellow reviewer as the lights came on. And he has a point, sort of. In terms of plot, there’s not much. Of character, a dumb hillbilly narrator (an enchanting Jamie Sweet, whose accent never broke, so far as I could tell); a dumb damsel (the simply lickable—yes—Jessica Variz as Hillary); a couple dumb antagonists (a great M. S. Cliff Threadgold as the pimp Tad Theaterman and Matt Anderson—a Dax Shepherd for men of letters—as Hillary’s husband Gerard); a dumb madame (too-cute Amber Green, channelling a wee bit of Madeline Kahn here); and our dumb hero, Jack (the standout Jeff Kriese, so great he was the only castmember I was too shy to congratulate after the show).

But in terms of devices, there’s a whole bunch of wonderfully playful meta-ness: a scripted post-show Q&A at the very beginning, with the actors playing themselves—Moliere references abound, fun for anyone who’s ever been friendly with a theater arts major—and the aforementioned Glengarry Glen Ross silliness (stolen by a fantastic Crystal Dawn Rios). There’s also Doniello, the written-in artistic director (played with perfection by Abina Anthony-Davis) and, just to make sure we get this is all stupid and nonsensical theater-turned-on-its-head-ness, random shouts of Sex! Wieners! Boobs! It’s absolutely fantastic.

Spoiler: There isn’t any actual sex.

That’s okay: There’s a fake purple dong.

*Patron saint against kidney stones.

SEX A.K.A. WIENERS AND BOOBS THE GARAGE THEATRE | 251 E SEVENTH ST | LONG BEACH 90813 | 866.811.4111 AND 562.433.8337 | THEGARAGETHEATRE.ORG | THURS-SAT 8PM | $12-15 | THRU MAR 22

Tags: david wain, garage theatre, glengarry glen ross, Long Beach, michael showalter, sex a.k.a wieners and boobs, wet hot american summer