DAY 4: McBusted and Evilness at the Steak House

Thursdays mark a fun day for me because it’s Art Klub day. A bunch of cartoonists and artists head over to the local Starbucks, draw, and share advice.

This Thursday was going to be exceptionally fun, because we got Jenn from the RoadHouse to agree to come model for us.

Let me explain how that happened. Yesterday, another cartoonist and I were at the Roadhouse (where else?) and Jenn was our server. We had invited her out to Art Klub before, and she’d even accepted, except that she was a big no-show.

We teased her about it, invited her again, and she again committed to come.

Right. Sure. Whatever. And she knew we didn’t believe her.

So, she whips out some paper and writes on it “I, Jenn, promise to be at Starbucks at 11:30” and signs it. She hands it to me and says, “There, that’s as good as my word. If I don’t show, you can do anything you want to me.”

I look over at Jenn with an evil grin, “anything?” Jenn looks us both in the eye and replies, “Anything.”

I’ve got to learn to get a more solid grip, because the other cartoonist snatched the promissory note right out of my hand.

So now it’s Thursday, and we know Jenn is going to show up, because she would never willingly subject herself to the abuse this group can fathom.

As we’re sitting there watching the time click away, someone turns to me and asks: “you think she’s gonna show?”

We were all thinking it: “Hope not! Muh ha ha ha ha!”

Turns out contemplating humiliating revenge is tedious work, and I decided to go to get a Coke at the next door McDonalds since I don’t do coffee.

Another one of my buddies joins me.

After ordering a vat of Coke, I go over to the machine and press the button. Nothing comes out. The thing is broken.

I confidently look at my buddy and announce, “no problem! I can fix this!” And before he can stop me, I rip the face plate off of the Coke machine exposing a number of wires. Finding a dangling wire, there are several places it can go. I pick one, jam it in, much to his horror, slap the face plate back on, and press Coke.

We’re both waiting for the machine to explode or a fuse to pop, but Coke starts shooting into my cup.

“Wow, man! That was impressive. That would have been great to catch on camera,” he says in astonishment. Now you’re in on it, because you’ve been following my Lack-Of-Spouse series, but he’s not, so when I pull a camera out of my pocket and hand it to him, he’s just as taken back.

To be honest, I was fairly impressed the rewiring of the coke machine worked myself. So, I rip off the face plate again, the wire was dangling just as before, and he pops off a few shots that would look good for Live Journal.

New problem. I can’t get the wire back into the hole.

New problem. The manager of the store sees the huge flash and comes to investigate.

New problem. The manager now sees me rewiring her Coke machine like I’m trying to defuse a bomb.

I instantly play dumb, and thanks to a language barrier, I act like I was filling Coke when it exploded in my hands. She explains she can fix it, and she muddles with the wires but is clearly timid about getting a shock.

So, as she’s got her hands in the middle of this thing, I lean close to her ear and make a sharp hissing pop sound. “Fwpop!!”

She jumps.

Just as she’s getting the face plate back on, the cook leans over and hands me the rest of my order, asking if it’s to go? I’m filling up my cup and answering, “yup, it’s to go.”

Apparently when I startled the manager, she didn’t wire things back up just right, because there was an awful lot of carbonation. And how that carbonation became time released, I’ll never know.

All I do know is that I’m taking my food, which the cook handed to the manager, and the manager handed to me, and as she’s doing this, my cup spontaneously overflows all over the floor.

I look down, “uh-oh”, and since she’s not moving, I grab a hunk of napkins and throw them on the large wet spill, where I start mushing the soggy napkins around with my foot.

I’m seriously trying to help here, but her damage assessment availabilities far exceed my own, and she starts waving her arms as fast as she can. I’ve seen this gesture quite often. It’s the one that precedes Tamara throwing me out of our kitchen in similar circumstances.

She points at the door and says “To go. To go. We clean.” (Okay, now you know she was Asian.)

So there I am back at the Starbucks, and already Day 4 is starting to unfold.

We agree that tonight might be a good night to hit the steakhouse again, if not to let Jenn know she’s now in serious jeopardy.

At the steakhouse we get seated with some new waiter, don’t get either of our favorite waiters, but given that we’ve now got the horse group mixing with the ex-coworker group, conversations start flying. And, what’s the one thing both groups have in common?

Using Walt for verbal target practice.

I suppose I started it. When asked what I’d like for my a side for my steak, I asked for broccoli. The waiter clarified, “is that just broccoli, or would you like carrots and cauliflower mixed in as well?”

“No, I want the bed all to myself tonight, fresh broccoli please.”

Now, should you ever find yourself amongst a group of friends and being coerced to share stories of how you can’t open a can of Spaghetti-Os or have to explain why you were buying panties at Victoria’s Secret, let me share with you something very important.

This is the face of evil:

That’s right. That innocent, young face hides a brutal assault of comic delivery. Notice carefully that Loralie is reading something. I didn’t draw that, and I wasn’t allowed to see them.

Eventually I did.

It was pictures of me abusing myself with a can opener, another was me wearing a bra that was the wrong size (is there a right size?), and so forth. And, as soon as I get to a scanner, I’m gonna show ’em to ya.

How wrong were these comics? How well recognizable that it was me and not some abstracted cartoon dude?

Once again, take a look at Loralie’s face… I don’t even have to write any more. Words no longer do justice.