"The Wisdom Of Joe Pesci", or "The Question"...

So, I tend to eat a fair whack of McDonalds. More than I should. Waaaay more than I should. Precise details are between me, my physician, and those pesky Greenpeace types who keep trying to roll me into the water whenever I'm at the beach...

Leaving aside my record-breaking cholesterol, rock-hard arteries, and my not needing embalming when I die due to the stupendous level of preservatives I ingest, it means that I spend more time at Maccas outlets than your average punter (unless your average punter is named Morgan Spurlock). As a not-particularly-keen, I-just-seem-to-be-around-when-shit-happens observer of the human condition, I can't help but notice the various foibles that afflict the bright-eyed, eager young things who happily provide a seemingly never-ending source of sub-minimum wage labour to the fast-food outlets.

Now, as with so many red-blooded Aussie blokes, I'm a strictly meat-and-potatoes kinda guy. Don't like fruits, nor veggies. (I shall manfully refrain from making any gay jokes, or references to sub-par intellects - this is strictly food-related. You can make your own arrangements, and deal with the consequences). Accordingly, when I feel the urge to grease up (in a foodish way), I order my McFood sans accoutrements, aka "Leave All That Other Shit Off!".

My bite of choice at the mo' is McDonalds' Mighty Angus. I like it. I like the thicker Angus patty, as opposed to the poker-chip thickness patties in the other McBurgers. I also seriously dig that it comes with a slice of bacon - and genuine "Is Don, Is Good!" rasher bacon, too, not that dreadful, artificially mashed-together "breakfast slice" crap that Hungry Jack's have been foisting on the consumer for so long. I challenge any Hungry Jack's employee, from the CEO down, to tell me what part of the pig that stuff comes from.

Perhaps better not. I've eaten there...

But bacon (REAL bacon, see last paragraph) is one of life's great joys, as noted by John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction" - "Bacon tastes goooood". (Admittedly, in the same scene, Samuel L. Jackson refuses to "dig on swine", but I in turn refuse to take seriously anyone who boogies around in public sporting a pretentious middle initial. Seriously - Samuel L. Jackson, to distinguish him from the well-known Samuel B. Jackson, or Samuel X. Jackson, perhaps? I propose a name-change to the more appealing "Samuel L. Mother-Fucking Jackson Mother-Fucker". It works better. More adequately sums up his general public persona, and would be one of the all-time great responses when pulled over by the cops and asked to state your name...).

Brief digression: why do cops always ask reeeeeally dumb questions when they pull you over? "Do you have any reason for doing 195 miles per hour in a 30 zone?". What do they expect the answer to be? "Duuude, I just took a shit-load of acid, and I'm tryin' to get home before it hits"... Digression over, back to our program...

So, when I hit McPukes, and am asked to place my order, here's my reply: "A Mighty Angus - meat, cheese, and bacon only - with an extra slice of bacon". Simplicity itself, although you'd be amazed at just how often this turns to tears...

Firstly, the staff are trained to try and get you to order "a meal". To give you stuff you don't really want, just to get more dough out of you. It's indoctrinated. Ingrained. Resulting in the following:

"What would you like?". (What would I like? Well, Jennifer Hawkins / Belinda Chapple / Natalie Portman, naked, please. With bacon).

"A Mighty Angus - meat, chee.."
"Is that in a meal?".

After politely answering "No", I proceed to give the order again. I'm invariably asked to repeat it, as it's a hard concept to grasp. There's an occasional hesitancy, as the counter-operative (no, not a spy - although I actually did once see one wearing a Hungry Jack's shirt! Really!) tries to work out the implications of "meat, cheese, and bacon only" - "You don't want pickles?". "Are pickles meat, cheese, or bacon? Then, nooooo"...

Occasionally, help is required. Another operator leaps into action, pressing all the correct buttons. I then repeat the "with an extra piece of bacon" post-script.

Which is when it happens. The Question.

"On the burger?"

Almost every damned time.

I used to be a huge fan of Mad magazine, at least until they launched that hyper-lame Australian version, and one of my favourite sections was Dave Berg's "Snappy Answers To Stupid Questions". And really, a veritable raft of witty rejoinders spring effortlessly to mind:

"No, in my hand'll do just fine...".
"With the fries, thanks"
"Could you put it in one of those little bags the Hash Browns come in?"
"It's not for me, it's for YOU!"

And so on...

Usually it's resolved, at least until I get my order, and began my forensic examination of the contents. See, very often, there are Foreign Objects in there - to wit, all the crap I specifically ahhhksed 'em not to put on, ay. Or, as a variation on the theme, occasionally there are omissions - such as the extra slice of bacon I requested, and paid an extra dollar for. On one halcyon night not so far back, they even left out the meat...

You're probably wondering what the Joe Pesci reference is doing in the title of this rant; if so, I congratulate you on your attention span! To paraphrase Hemingway, it is now necessary that you view Lethal Weapon 2. Or at least this bit of it:

It's one of life's great truisms. There's nary a one of us who hasn't been done over at a drive-thru at some point, and arrived at destination missing a variety of the items we'd ordered. Or with any of a dozen handy substitutes. It's almost a rite of passage. And an ever-looming pitfall for the unwary, the weak, and the fatigued.

Thus, one night, did I make my way into a Maccas drive-thru, and place my customary order. The Question went un-asked, thereby lulling me into a false sense of security. The McOrder was duly dispensed, and I pulled into a handy parking spot to ascertain that All Was Well inside the bag.

NOT!

I'd asked for a Mighty Angus and fries. However, there was a box of McNuggets on top. Poop. Being scrupulously honest (and as I don't eat chicken, and the extra bits were therefore of no earthly...), I removed the box, in order that I might return it From Whence It Came. And then noticed that it was suspiciously light...

Being of a curious bent, I opened it. And there, inside the box, resting confortably on a napkin, was my extra piece of bacon....

Stories That May Not Be True, Volume 2

The Place: Melbourne

The Time: Ummmm... can I get back to you on that? Ta...


Outside a busy suburban shopping centre, a group of pedestrians are busily attempting to solve the riddle of "Why the chicken crossed the road". Yet, they are being hampered in their diligent efforts by two insurmountable obstacles: 1) traffic, and 2) more traffic.

Patiently, they wait. Every so often, one will dare to press the Big Button, earning gazes of contemptuous scorn and derision from those older, wiser souls who have already pressed it.

Finally, the traffic lights change, and the pedestrians may seek the greener pastures awaiting on the far distant shore.

But, Hark - what light through yonder window breaks? It is the head of a disgruntled motorist, throwing slings and barbs of outrageous misfortune at the gimp in the car beside him, who for his part offers several pieces of choice invective designed to help not at all...

The scene escalates, as such scenes doth tend to do. Motorist A gets out of his Monaro, and advances on Motorist B's Falcon, with the light of deranged righteousness in his eyes. Motorist B emerges, and is immediately on the receiving end of a hand-picked and hand-delivered selection of blows from Motorist A's repertoire.

Meanwhile... an opportunistic pedestrian has seen the light! He has discovered the means by which he may advance from the churlish burden of "pedestrian", and acheive that most cherished state of being: "motorist".

He advances rapidly, pushing his way through the throng of lesser beings, and into the driver's seat of the still-idling Monaro. Engages First gear. Floors it. And heads joyously off into his new life, leaving behind several months worth of shreddded tyre tread as a consolation prize.

Motorist A, still mid-pummell, notes his beloved ozone-depleting steed thoughtlessly leaving without him, and ceases re-arranging the molecules of Motorist B's face. He strides boldly forward, loudly demanding arbitration and that his vehicle cease tarrying with another. From the Monaro's window emerges that finger which simultaneously advocates mono-genesis, and signifies that neither vehicle nor new owner shall return.

As Motorist A is searching his less-than-extensive vocabulary for an expletive to adequately cover the situation, Motorist B carpe's the diem, and plants a judicious Size 10 in Motorist A's buttii, then jumps into his Falcon, and departs the scene bloodied, yet strangely euphoric.

Motorist A is now left standing mid-intersection, watching as both his own vehicle and that of his recent victim disappear into the sunset, and facing the thought of a long walk home, and what his mates at the pub will say when they find out...

The pedestrians are in rapture, particularly the one who told me this story. Knowing him as I do, I fear that it may not be true.

But it should be...

The night I killed the radio station...

PVFM Night
Originally uploaded by Dr. Keats

The following tale of woe takes place in a humble community radio station in Melbourne, Australia, many years ago. It's taken this long for the main participant to live down the shame...

Our story takes place on a wet, windy, stormy Melbourne night. Blowing an absolute gale. Yet, inside the radio station, and on radios all throughout the region, people are hopping and bopping to the sweet sounds of country music, being dispensed with glee, knowledge, and power by one George Peden.

Not the "yee-hah", shit-kicker, "Oh Lord, my dawg jes' died" sorta country - this is the Real Deal. The throbbing, pulsating, vibrant creature that is Today's Country. Brookes & Dunn. Royal Wade Kimes. Kenny Chesney. 45 South. Jo Dee Messina (look 'em up!).

The joint is jumpin', as per usual between 8 and midnight on a Saturday. And while the Big Man sets toes a-tappin' and hearts aglow, far and wide, Dr. Keats (an honorary doctorate bestowed by George) toils away in the Green Room, fielding copious 'phone calls, whilst scoffing even more copious mugs of tea...

So, the power goes off at about ten minutes past ten. All is in darkness, but for the glow of the three studio computers, which are still working.

The radio station's not. Well, kinda...

See, there's a contingency plan in place: if the station's transmitter site loses the signal from the station, a satellite broadcast kicks in from the transmitter itself. Thus, in place of the warm, down-home bonhomie of the nicer George W (Peden, rather than Shrub), we instead have the gentle wafting sounds of Deutch Weller radio, broadcasting live and direct from Berlin.

The listeners are still being served, albeit with bratwurst, rather than beans 'n' fries. Knees are still being slapped, the difference being that the knees are protruding from leather shorts, rather than hidden within faded blue jeans....

Meanwhile, Dr. K and George Peden are in the dark, in all senses of the word - with the exception of the 'phone system, which is now going into melt-down from incoming calls from kind listeners wishing to inform us that we're off-air.

As it happens, we know that already...

Yet, we can re-power it. We have the technology. In the form of a back-up generator upon which neither presenter not trusty side-kick have ever laid eyes, let alone hands...

The Emergency Torch is known not to work, so a mobile 'phone steps into the breach, lighting the way to the Switchboard for the generator start-up instructions. Five minutes and two pitch-black-bumping-into-things skinned knees later, the generator cover is located and lifted. Eureka - a working torch awaits within! A very bright torch.

A now slightly flash-blinded Dr. Keats duly follows the start-up procedure, neglecting to notice that some swine of a designer has located the exhaust right where a person needs to be to work the choke and petrol knobs. The carburettor is primed, ignition switch turned on, and zip cord pulled with might. The engine starts magnificently, belching a cloud of black soot directly onto Dr. Keats' white polo shirt, and down his throat, he being a mouth-breather and all...

However, it works - the station is back on-air, "The Bunkhouse" is resumed, George is satisfied, as are the many callers, and all's right with the world; even if the generator isn't pumping out enough watts to enable the studio computers to come out of "stand-by" mode.

It's taken all of five minutes to get everything re-happening.

At which point another stalwart station presenter, Dorian, arrives just in time to be of no help at all, although his presence is welcomed as Dr. K appears to be experiencing the onset of a heart attack through a combination of impacted stress and inhaled soot. Having notified a suspiciously sleepy-sounding Duty Manager, Dr.K then elects to inform the masses (i.e: the station's Committee Of Management), via e-mail.

Bugger, no Internet! Shit.

Aha, the little lights on the server aren't on, it obviously needs to be reset. So, Dr.K goes around the back, and gently moves the server's power switch to "off", then back to "on".

Which trips the fusebox's main safety switch, taking the station off-air again.

The brutally and prematurely-silenced host exits the once-again lifeless studio with a reproachful look of innocence betrayed, shaking his head at the vagaries of fate, while Dr.K head-butts the walls....