A month or so ago, The Babes in Boinkland were invited to audition for America’s Got Talent. The audition would be an hour long, and if we passed it, the second audition would be in front of the America’s Got Talent Official Panel of Judges (read: David Hasselhoff).

I had just joined the Babes the week before. I was just beginning to learn that the rest of the troupe consists of dancers: women who have been in classes since they were five years old, who know ballet, swing, salsa. “I need to know who’s in, because if we progress, this is a huge commitment,” Sugar wrote. Like literally, Vegas.

I slept on that. By which I mean, I woke up several times during the night feeling like I was going to throw up. But just shortly after I wrote her back, confessing that there was no way I could learn choreography like the rest of the group and that I didn’t want to drag anyone down with me, she wrote a second email: “America’s Got Contracts.”

Part of the contract was that the contract could not be publicized or performed, but nobody had signed anything yet. And so here it is: The Contract, read by Sugar Dish (nsfw, if that’s not obvious).