Speaking of embracing our natures, here's a celebrity dream cameo courtesy of Sunday night, off-brand nighttime cough medicine, swine flu, and the letter F.*
I'm working as a stock boy/cargo loader/product tester for an industrial snake company.** There are three of us in the Stock and Product department, and our job largely consists of goofing off and creating plumbing problems to test R&D's latest snake on. The latest one is about three inches in diameter with a motorized, chewing drill bit gizmo on the front end. R&D has decided that the most efficient drilling mechanism for this size snake is a model of the human mouth. R&D is busy feeding this monstrosity into a toilet out in the parking lot that is supposed to be connected to septic system below the parking lot in the underground lab. Little do they know, Smitty was stoned off his ass when he set up today's test, and he routed it to the sink in the break room as a prank, knowing that we would lose our shit (AHEM) when we saw a mouth chewing its way out of the sink.
Jones and I are sitting in the break room and watching today's advertisements, which apparently consist entirely of trailers for the new Ben Affleck movie in which he plays some sort of villain. The Marketing Wars of the Early 21st Century have allowed for total freedom in all advertising campaigns, so while Jones and I were hoping to watch some sort of sporting event, we are instead watching endless repeats of the trailer for Ben Affleck's latest godawful movie. The marketing team for this movie has seems to have figured out that Ben Affleck sucks and no one likes him, and has designed a campaign around this immutable fact of even my waking hours. The trailer is Ben Affleck being thrown backwards to land on a giant, rusty, lumber processing plant circular saw. He then says, "well that hurts but it won't kill me!" Then his arms and legs get caught in some sort of machinery, and he is spread-eagled as the saw slowly begins to turn. Benny boy shouts again, "Well this really hurts but it won't kill me!" Then a yellow school comes smashing into frame right onto Ben Affleck and his body gruesomely separates, and his head pops right off. As it tumbles through the air, his disembodied head yells, "Okay, now you've killed me." I think the title for this movie was "Ben Affleck Gets Gruesomely Dismembered!"
Both Jones and I agree that it is clever marketing but that we'll probably wait for the DVD. The new snake then bursts forth from the sink and begins flopping around, gnashing it's teeth, and Jones and I both leap up and damn near crap ourselves. We recover our wits, turn on our radios, and hear the R&D guys attempting to figure out where the errant snake has gone. "Watch this," I say, and grab the snake just behind the drilling mechanism. I give it a yank, and the last few feet of it disappear into the toilet in the parking lot to the surprise of the R&D crew. Jones and I have a laugh, pull the rest of it out into the lot, and drop it at the feet of the puzzled scientists. "We're going on break," we shout over our shoulder, and head in for a coffee or energy drink. Maybe a protein shake, I don't know.
As we open the door to the break room shed, we see Patton Oswalt fleeing off the property. We're on break, so we don't have to worry about that, and besides we don't get paid to do security, union rules. When we open the fridge in the break room, we find an unknown sandwich in a baggy along with a six pack of Beast Balls Energy Drink, both with a note that says, "Mine! Hands off! Do not drink/eat!" Jones says, "Rules say, you've got to leave your name on your stuff, and I don't see a name here." We split the sandwich, and each crack open a Beast Balls Energy Drink. The can is vibrant yellow with an iridescent pink sheen. The drink is oddly refreshing, and Jones and I both stare at each other, shouting "Your lips are yellow! And pink!" We both look in the mirror and true enough, we have bright pink and yellow lips and tongues. We pour out some of the Beast Balls in a glass. It is a flourescent pink, and blazing yellow that glows in the dark. I grab our geiger counter*** and sure enough, Beast Balls is mildly radioactive.
At this point, we tear off after Patton Oswalt. We find him just down the street, desperately trying to start his 1976 white Volvo wagon. The back is packed full of boxes of the sandwiches, cases of Beast Balls, and a few boxes of pre-written Post-Its. We drag his chubby ass out of his beat-up Volvo, and say, "Nice car. Now what's the deal with Beast Balls!?" Patton confesses to the whole thing, admitting that he's had to become an independent marketing agent ever since his "Still Feeling Kinda Patton" comedy album tanked and his label sued him. He confessed to the whole thing. The scheme was to get people drinking Beast Balls, and then get it on the shelves. Marketing research proved in the late 20th Century that people were 90% more likely to eat something in a company fridge if there was a note, but no name on the note, regardless of the contents of the be-noted container. This was no more different than purchasing 24 hours of commercials on a television station to play the same 30-second trailer of Ben Affleck getting dismembered. We let Patton go, but still got his autograph because that bastard is funny.
At this point, I woke up in the middle of the alleged eight hours of effectiveness of my cough medicine, took a whee (in the toilet), talked to my Dad when he called, and went right back to sleep.
* As in where the eff can you get what I'm having?
** Even my unconcious, drug-addled mind thinks I'm destined for life of shit jobs and plumbing disasters.
*** What the hell kind of plumbing company needs a geiger counter?