SUBURBAN HOUSEHOLD, AFTERNOON

SCOTT: Mom, can I borrow twenty dollars? I want to take Cindy to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Dad hasn't paid me yet for mowing the—

SCOTT's MOTHER (interrupting): Jesus Christ, Scott, I'm not a fucking ATM machine. You can't just put a debit card in me, enter your PIN, press the "Enter" button, press the button for "Withdrawal or Cash Advance," then press the button for "Withdrawal from Checking" then enter the amount in multiples of 20, then press "Enter," then press "Yes" when it asks if you want a receipt. I'm not a fucking ATM machine.

SCOTT: Point taken. You're not an Automated Teller Machine machine.

SCOTT's MOTHER: Have you applied for any jobs yet?

SCOTT: Well, no, but…

SCOTT's MOTHER: You need to get a job, Scott. You're 18 years old.

SCOTT: I just don't know who would hire me…

SCOTT's MOTHER: Well, let's see, no college education, no high school diploma, mild to severe dyslexia, a crippling masturbation habit…

SCOTT: What?

SCOTT's MOTHER: Huh?

SCOTT: Uh, go on…

SCOTT's MOTHER: …No street smarts, no book smarts… Oh, I've got it: McDonald's.

5 DAYS LATER, QUIZNOS RESTAURANT

MANAGER: Well, Scott, I'm looking over your application here, and I have to say, you lack any previous job experience whatsoever, but your passiveness, ignorance of what the real world is like, and probable willingness to be submitted to extreme, possibly illegal behavior is what we're looking for here at Quiznos, home of the 2 dollar Flatbread Sammies.

SCOTT: I don't understand, but I'll just nod my head and pretend I do.

MANAGER: Exactly, Scott. So, have you ever cooked anything before?

SCOTT: Well, Lunchables, and Pop Tarts and stuff. I mean I didn't put the Pop Tarts in a toaster, I just kind of ate it out of the package or whatever.

MANAGER: I see, well, Lunchables count. We'll have to teach you how we cook here at Quiznos, Mmm, Mmm, Toasted!™

SCOTT: Sounds good…Boss?

MANAGER: Yes, I suppose you can call me Boss. I'm willing to offer you a job as the Lead Backup Weekend Freelance Janitor. Basically, you'll be on call 24/7…on the weekends. We'll usually only call you if someone shits all over the walls, or the floors, or the ceilings, or if someone takes a shit and then takes their shit and paints the wall with their shit, or if someone has diarrhea and they shit into a Quiznos, Toasty Bullet for $3 for a Limited Time Only!, cup and then slowly drips it over the whole bathroom and then rigs their diarrhea liquid to come out the faucet so people are washing their hands with the homeless guys diarrhea feces. It happens more than you'd think.

SCOTT: I'll take it!

MANAGER: Whoa, easy there, cowboy. And by cowboy I mean faggot. I have to speak with my, um, "boss" and then we'll get back to you.

SCOTT leaves. From behind MANAGER, a bellowing voice begins, well, bellowing.

OVEN: ssssssYOU MUSSSSST HIIIIRE THAT BOYYYYYYYssssss.

MANAGER: Listen here, Oven—

OVEN: Call me Chad.

MANAGER: I can't keep hiring employees to fulfill your sick, perverted fantasies. This has to stop.

OVEN: They're not sick! And aren't you forgetting who puts the food on the table around here?

MANAGER: Fine, I'll hire him, but just….just use an oven mitt this time.

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