“Always be smarter than the people who hire you.”
PREVIOUSLY ON “SUICIDE HOTLINE FOR DEPRESSED PIGS”:
God is crashing with us for a while.
…AND NOW, THE THRILLING CONTINUATION!
When I got to Wendy’s, sporting my best coattails-and-top-hat ensemble and with a freshly-printed résumé in hand, I asked the bleary-eyed young man manning the cash-register where one would be to go had one an interview. It took him a couple of moments to parse my sentence inside his brain, and another few moments to orient himself in the building, but once this was accomplished it was only another minute or so before he pointed towards a dilapidated door with the ominous words “SOO ZAAN” scrawled into the wood of the door itself — by means of a knife, unless my guess is pretty wide off the mark.
“Many thanks, m’good lad,” I said, tipping my hat courteously to the slack-jawed youth.
“Oh, take this,” he said, and tossed me what could only have been a giant shank of mutton.
“What’s this giant shank of mutton for?” I asked, clutching the enormous hunk of animal meat uncertainly.
“You’ll know,” he said.
“I see,” I said, not a little disconcerted by the unusual necessity of taking a giant shank of mutton into an interview with me. Nevertheless, hoisting up my good walking-cane under my arm, I gamely proceeded towards the indicated door.
The first impression that assailed my highly refined senses upon opening the door to the sensibly-appointed office was one of excessive stagnation. I forthwith identified the source of this odoriferous impression as being the large, plain-featured being sitting behind a desk. I say “large,” but what I really mean is something more along the lines of tremendous; I had never before seen, for instance, anyone take up more floorspace than their desk.
I glanced at the name-plaque on the desk:
Suzanne (for that was its name, it seemed) had an appearance not unlike an entire dumptruck’s worth of lard that has been dumped into a chair and had a dirty-blond wig placed daintily atop it. Across the vast, bloated wasteland that was its cumbrous body were smeared, at irregular intervals, its various body-parts: a leg here, what looked to be an eyebrow there. It wasn’t moving. Its eyes were rolled back into its skull, and several flies were attending to it solicitously.
For a moment I thought that the entity in front of me might be a Necrotic-American — one of those rare post-life individuals who are totally equal with other Americans. Not having been raised in a barn, I knew that High Etiquette demanded that I employ only the most refined speech in the presence of such an “Equal” Citizen.
“O Necrotic-American,” I began, reciting the traditional greeting, “Fair wert thou in life, yet fairer still art thou in death; and verily, though the living may –”
I was here interrupted by the door opening. A tall, slim woman with ambiguously coffee-colored skin and a smart sense of executive-style power-fashion walked briskly into the office. She extended a hand to me.
“Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino, Human Resources,” said the woman who, given various “context clues” the details of which I don’t need to get into just now, I presumed was Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino. “Let’s liaise!” She said enthusiastically.
I glanced at her name-tag, which did nothing but confirm my suspicion:
Human Resource Administrator, P.R. Division
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss ‘Tard-Wrangler,” I said, accepting her hand.
“Oh, there must be some mistake,” She said with a puzzled expression. “My name is ‘Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino, not ‘’Tard-Wrangler’…”
“But your name-tag–” I began.
“Oh, this,” she said, looking at her name-tag. “I see where the confusion is stemming from now, and I thank you for reaching out to me on this extremely sensitive yet important matter. That’s not my name, as it happens — that’s my job-title! …Or rather, my former job-title (we haven’t had time to switch out the name-tags yet). These days we prefer the term ‘Facilitator of the Sub-Averagely-Intelligenced’; the term ‘’Tard-Wrangler,’ was felt to be… er, less-than-ideally respectful, and thus detrimental to our ‘brand’.”
“I see,” I said.
“Suzanne here may be a Sub-Averagely-Intelligenced American, but she’s still our Executive Associate In Charge of Outreach and Recruitment!”
“I see,” I said again, glancing over at the vast, bloated thing that would be determining whether or not I would become an employee of the “Wendy’s” fast-food restaurant-chain.
“So does it–”
“‘She,’” Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino corrected me.
“…Does …she just sit there… or… or does she ask questions, or what?”
“Well, that’s a delicate topic…” the Human Resources officer said, somewhat uneasily. I caught her glancing up at something hanging on the wall. I followed her gaze to a disclaimer posted prominently on one wall of the office:
“THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS AN EQUAL-OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER; IT DOES NOT DISCRIMINATE ON THE BASIS OF AGE, SEX, COLOR, CREED, RELIGION, NATIONALITY, SEXUAL ORIENTATION, OR BEING A BIG FAT RETARD.”
So that was it… She wasn’t a Necrotic-American at all — she was a retard!
A sudden panic gripped my chest:
I realized — oh, God! perhaps only too late — that the massive entity in front of me was not merely stupid; she was dangerously stupid. I recalled a nature documentary I had seen in which an enraged mother-hippo capsized a four-thousand-pound jeep after one of the occupants had been foolhardy enough to snap a Polaroid of the huge, irritable beast.
With a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized that she was the hippo, and I had been foolhardy enough to enter her den of fatness and stupidness and being a retard!!!
As if on cue, Suzanne suddenly lurched forward and beached herself on the top of the desk, sending various papers and office-supplies scattering over the floor.
“WEMBY’S,” boomed the massive retard, “SOO-SOO WANT YUM-YUM WEMBY’S HANGLE-BRUGGERS!!”
“Now, Suzanne,” Said Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino sternly (and with just a hint of unutterable horror in her otherwise calm, cool, and collected “professional voice”). She took a long step back in order to give the giant retard a wider — and for herself, safer — berth. “Mr. Nelson here would like an interview with you — that’s alright with you, isn’t it, Suzanne?”
“HANGLE-BRUGGERS!” came the thunderous reply. “SOO-SOO WANT NOM NOM WEMBY’S HANGLE-BRUGGERS!!!”
“Now, Suzanne–” Samantha began, but was interrupted by the unexpected need to dodge a large paperweight thrown directly at her head by a Suzanne who was, seemingly, unwilling to give this “Mr. Nelson” character the interview he so richly deserved.
Suzanne narrowed two large, indistinct blobs which may or may not have served at her eye-holes and said in a chillingly quiet voice: “HANGLE. BRUGGERS.”
Samantha seemed alarmed by the inefficacy of her initial foray and hastily retrieved a walkie-talkie from some place on her person:
“Johnson? Johnson, come in!” she said.
“Johnson! Set Threat Level to orange! And get me Yamaguchi!”
An ear-splitting KRAKKK erupted from the desk as it buckled under the incredible weight of a retard the size of a small yurt.
“Yamaguchi! Johnson? What am I, talking to myself here?”
“Yamaguchi! Update Threat Level to red! And Jesus Christ, Yamaguchi, get me one gross of Wendy’s Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers — extra ketchup, hold the pickles — yesterday!!”
“AMB SUM ASS-CRAM!!” bellowed Suzanne.
“And ice-cream, for the love of God, Yamaguchi!” yelled Samantha into the walkie.
But alas, the rusty stone kills the grease, or whatever that expression is. No sooner had Yamaguchi responded with an “I’m on it!” but Suzanne had decided, evidently, that her appetite would not allow her to wait for the arrival of the hamburgers. Leaning far forward from atop the desk, Suzanne seized and then began devouring the unoccupied chair to my right.
“Suzanne!” said Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino. “NO. BAD Suzanne! BAD.”
Suzanne’s riposte to her wrangler’s admonishment was an enthusiastic “WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” and a wide swipe of her hulking paw that sent Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino flying towards a cluster of file-cabinets situated in one corner of the office. She crashed with a sickening thunk against the cold, unyielding metal.
“Oh, my!” I said, pithily summing up the fact that the situation was rapidly spiraling out of control.
Just then a short Japanese man that could only have been Yamaguchi opened the door. He was dragging behind him a trash-bag full of hamburgers, but he never got the chance to deploy them: Suzanne noticed the intruder and summarily skewered him against the wall with a floor-lamp that happened to be on-hand.
“Yamaguchi!” cried Samantha hoarsely, blood trickling from lacerations to her forehead and arms.
“WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” replied Suzanne.
My mother having raised no fool, I quickly reviewed the situation I was in and decided to make a swift and prudent exit before something similar to (or worse than!) skewering befell me.
“So… …yeah. …I’m-a just leave this guy over here for ya…” I said casually, trying not to incur the wrath of the beast as I gingerly tossed my resume onto a stack of papers where Suzanne… or someone, I guess… would be sure to find it.
…That is, if anybody survived.
Suzanne had by now rent a gaping chasm through the wall of the office and into the main portion of the restaurant and was stuffing handfuls of customers into her seemingly insatiable maw. A tall blond man (Johnson?) and a squadron of nine more heavily-armed men and women had rushed into the office, decked out in full combat-gear, and were now crouched behind an overturned table, having set up a crude, ad-hoc “command bivouac” behind it, and were pumping Suzanne full of bullets which, unfortunately, sank as harmlessly into her dense, blubbery flesh as raisins into pudding.
“DIE, YOU SWINE — DIE!!!!” the tall blond man screamed, jolted by the kickback of his .05 caliber M2, illuminated by gunfire, and drenched in the spewing blood of chomped-in-half customers.
“WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” Suzanne reiterated testily.
“Cool,” I said, somewhat uncertain how to bring the interview to a satisfactory “close,” “well, uh, so, thanks so much for your help, Mrs. Goldstein-Branjolina-Carpal-Tunnel. I’m just gonna… uh… leave now… so… okay, bye!”
The profusely bleeding H.R.-rep probably couldn’t hear me anyway over the clamor of Suzanne ripping apart and eating file-cabinets as though they were taffy. The monstrous beast was now using the desk as a kind of skateboard, grabbing handfuls of floorboard and dragging the desk (and herself along with it) slowly but inexorably across the office as she made her way ever closer to the bookshelf up which Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino had scrambled in a desperate attempt to evade The Creeping Carnage.
“Just, uh, yeah — just let me know if I can do anything for you… and uh, let me know about the job, okay?” I said, inching towards the door.
“THE SHANK, YOU FOOL!” screamed Samantha as she clung to the top of the bookshelf for sweet, sweet life. “THROW HER THE SHANK!!”
I hit the heel of my hand against my forehead.
Of course — the shank!
I had had the thing in my hand the whole time, but like some kind-a grade-“A” dufus had somehow overlooked the warning printed on the back of the shank: “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, THROW SHANK ** EN CASO DE EMERGENCIA, TIRE PIERNA.”
Giving it a quick Eskimo kiss for good luck and intoning a short prayer to God (who was at that moment being babysat back at my apartment by my pet pig), I hurled the precious shank in the direction of Suzanne (which wasn’t a difficult shot to make considering she took up a good 160 degrees of my field of vision). My “good deed for the day” thus accomplished, I then exited the office, tipping my hat courteously to the gentlemen and -women at the door who were currently trying to “bring down” Suzanne with a hail of bullets.
“My,” I reflected heartily, using my walking-cane as a grappling-hook as I crawled over heaps of dead bodies to get to the front door of the restaurant, “what an agreeable mélange of ethnicities that oddly-named woman was!”
SMASH-CUT TO BLACK