Premise: In the year 2033, women who have been wronged by men (including but not limited to abused, discriminated against, neglected, condescended, publicly shamed, erased, marginalized, used, discarded, treated in a marriage like a subordinate, an employee or a roommate for that matter) are instantly imbued with a SuperPower: they can impregnate the perp. They do so via their assigned Righteous Angel—no contact required, no worries; the egg comes from a cache saved through the millennia by prescient, pioneering women-turned-angels, aka The Righteous Squad ("TRS") who saw what was coming—namely an eternal imbalance because, ya know, only women could bear children ... until now. TRS tipped the scales—to equilibrium—by making men prego. After innumerable long-term, peer-reviewed studies, it was confirmed that men actually had to endure 40 weeks of creating a being + 30ish pounds + varicose veins + hemorrhoids + labor + delivery + nursing + 3 years of diapers and potty training + one decade of not sleeping and play dates with small tupperwares and Raffi and relentless comparison analysis from other primary caregivers + the parental-ire epoch of adolescence... to understand. TO GET IT.
TRS monitor the Y-chrom bad behavior from their Cloud-Based Fem-Aerie. (Picture it: Cloud spas, Cloud Whole Foods hot bars, Cloud spin classes, Cloud City Arts and Lectures lectures; Cloud Good Vibrations, Cloud book clubs.) TRS doesn't miss a single bad apple. Needless to say, men throughout Europe, Russia, China and the US start getting pregnant at an alarming rate. The media is apoplectic; it’s all the twittersphere can tweet about. #metoo becomes #youtoo.
We are now, officially, all in this together.
The harried father-to-be (played by Will Farrell for sure) answers the front door in his distressed AC-DC t-shirt meant to cover his bulging belly and acid-wash paternity stretch jeans. We estimate that he is seven-months along based on his hair and skin, which are, in a word, problematic. He has forgotten to bathe … for at least a week. His socks don’t match. The dog barks uncontrollably behind him, refusing to heed the fruitless voca alta commands from the unraveling man of the house.
The FedEx delivery woman on the other side of the door hands him an unwieldy 40-lb package – Looks like it’s your new bouncy seat, daddy. If only they had one for new parents!” (Guffawing.) "You’re going to need it. That and the inflatable donut for post-delivery, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean. Enlighten me,” rubbing his moobs which are swollen and sore but not as swollen and sore as his cankles.
“Your wife can fill you in. She’s been there. Good luck!" (Beat.) Smirks, spins and turns. “Oh, here she is now.”
Wife (Julianne Moore please) pulls slow-mo into driveway in a midnight blue Tesla Model S P100D. Steps out in stilettos, hair swinging, from the passenger side. Her personal assistant (who drives of course so she can work) emerges from driver’s seat.
“H! Oh, Excellent! The self-soothing seat arrived! What’s for dinner, babe?” …