Spencer Pratt has been laying on the horn of his black GMC Denali for a good minute now. He started honking just after turning onto the private drive that leads to the house he lives in in Carpinteria, Calif., and after driving about 100 yards, he’s come to a full stop. Because his wife, Heidi Pratt (née Montag), is blocking the way in the middle of the street, waving her arms and swaying her hips enthusiastically in a slow strut. A Weeknd-ish song that a producer sent the couple blares from the Denali’s speakers. Then, right there in the street, amidst the cacophony of a horn mixing with the droning bassline of this R&B song, Heidi starts twerking. Her back still to the car, she spreads her legs a little and bends over, all the while shaking her ass. She then, in the words of FloRida, gets low, clearly a master of all white girl club moves. Heidi turns towards the car, continuing her dance/gyrations—at this point Spencer’s given up on honking—and just as I think to myself, “This is really similar to that scene in The Counselor where Cameron Diaz has sex with a Ferrari,” Heidi begins to climb onto the hood of the SUV. She slips at first, but makes it up there, and starts whipping her blonde hair around and grinding on the Denali from her knees. A middle-aged female from the small, quiet California neighborhood jogs by, snapping the three of us out of this surreal moment, and prompting Heidi to slink off the SUV and sprint back towards their house. “Delgado’s tequila got her again,” Spencer says to the jogger, who smiles and nods back, but doesn’t say anything more. And then, as Spencer moves the vehicle from Park to Drive, the street finally open again, he leans over to me in the passenger seat and says, “If I had a dollar for every time this happened.”

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