Pleas for Understanding from Gus Caruthers, Manager of Arby's

To whoever decided to toy with the drive-through speakers Saturday morning, I hope you're happy. I personally blame you for making me weep inconsolably, like a little girl when told that her pony must be put down due to rabies.

I busted my hump when you placed that fake order for a hundred and seventy-five Number 2 meals. I sounded Alert Level Defcon, which means pulling folks off the registers to pry open large vats of cheesy sauce. Immediately, faxes were sent off to the Home Office for the district, informing the Regional Manager of a traffic uptick. Running low on roast beef, we resorted to ritually slaughtering the cat of Casey, the fry cook. Man, she got upset, but at Arby's, the customer comes first. We're willing to die in order to please you.

And then what did you do? You rode on through, past both of the windows (Casey had sobbingly pleaded with you to proceed to the first window for payment), slowing down only to laugh and call me a four-letter name I cannot repeat here. Suddenly, our best day ever in the entire history of the Mississauga, Ontario Arby's went up in smoke. Partly because Casey caught her tie on fire on the grill, but also because we were left with 175 sandwiches, slathered in cheese and extra horsey sauce, and nothing to do with them all.

Well, I'll tell you what I did. I sat and ate each and every one of those sandwiches. It took me three days to do it, during which I lay naked on the tile floor of my office, experiencing severe gastrointestinal cramping and taking the Lord's name in vain. My girlfriend left me in disgust, and I had to have Casey mop up my urine and tears because I was too bloated to stand. But I wasn't about to let your prank lead to product loss. I also paid for that food out of my own pocket, to the tune of $1391.25. There goes my trip to Carlsbad Caverns, and the down-payment on the lead testes I was going to have implanted to replace the ones I lost in Kuwait.

I know you're out there somewhere, Bobby Turner. Giggling at my misery. One of these days, I'll find you, and you'll get a stern talking-to! You're no longer welcome either here or at the Brampton and Oakville stores. That'll teach you that roast beef is a privilege, not a right.

Threats and Allegations from Howard Leeds, Creator of Small Wonder

Hi. I'm Howard Leeds, creator and producer of Small Wonder, and Hollywood Big Shot. Years ago, your rejection of my work led me to grow increasingly embittered and insane. And I'm happy to report that the trend has continued, although now it teeters more towards the bloodthirsty.

Listen, you worm-ridden halfwits. Your refusal to watch my show, or trade its bubble-gum cards, or purchase the Small Wonder Home Pregnancy Test, has greatly reduced my ability to shape and control the course of culture. If I had my way, by now we'd all be served tea by prepubescent android fembot butlers in frilly dresses! But no! You had to dash my hopes and dreams, and in doing so, you ruined it for the rest of humanity as well. Shame on you, society.

Well, I've had it. I'm going on strike! That's right! I refuse to gift you with the genius of my creative inspiration any further. That means you'll be robbed of all the ideas that flow forth freely from my brain, and instead will know the true definition of hell- life without my grace!

So, no Small Wonder: The Jamie Lawson Chronicles. No Win, Lose or Wonder game show. And certainly no Two Guys, a Femdroid Housegirl and a Pizza Place. You shall be deprived of that which you could have experienced, as vengeance for your ingratitude!

And there's more! Fire and brimstone will rain down upon you! Continents will shatter and split, the seas will boil, and cats will mate with dogs! The skies shall haze over with darkness, and you will know not joy or laughter again. The deafening cries of the orphaned and widowed will drown out the screams and howls of dragons feasting upon your entrails. You will then realize what you have done by forsaking me, but alas, it will be too late.

I'm Howard Leeds, and I'll enjoy your agony muchly.

Further Ickiness from Wilkie Collins, Tea Enthusiast

I have decided to ensnare a cougar. Not one of those large feral cats that populates the New World, but rather a woman of the female persuasion, above the age of 18 (that being the age at which one becomes an old maid). Thusly, I have dutifully posted an advertisement for the position, along with my requirements and caveats. Below, see the lithographic reproduction of said inquiry.


Wanted: Domestic Dowager
Should be familiar with skills including, but not limited to: Leeching, bloodletting, tea service, figging, assassination of rival novelists, nursemaiding symptoms of dropsy, mash-banging, tut-tutting, opium procurement, chaperone-evasion and parliamentary procedure.

You should be:
Comely, consumption-negative, tightlaced. Able to discern the difference between "thou" and "thine." Heaving bosoms a definite factor of plussage!

Apply in person behind the Tyburn gallows. Please to be bringing with you accoutrements necessary for preparing eel pie, numerous chromeolated silver etchings of thy ankles, conversational rapport, and a list of reasons you wish to see Charles Dickens deprived of his viscera. A jug of laudanum wouldn't hurtest thoust chances, either.

Ooh! Now to sit back and enjoyeth the fruitful bounty of my endeavours! Come to Papa Collins!

Uncomfortable Oral Arguments from Wilkie Collins, Victorian Novelist

Ahoy-hoy, chaps and gentleladies! Tis I, Wilkie Collins, literary gadabout and archfoe of the dread Charles Dickens! I lay aside my buttered toast once more to speaketh to you about happenstances and occurrences in my most sanguine life.

How do I put this most tactfully? Forgive the impulsive nature of my statement henceforth, but twere as it tis. I wouldst like to sex thou up.

There! I have said it! I have laid pen to paper and captured the essence of my argument in a compact yet loaded sentence that embodies the carnal urges which self-flagellation and leechings have failed to relieve me of! For you see, I too put my breeches upon myself one pantaloon at a time. Doth we all have our most human needings? Mine involve you, myself, the shore of Jersey, and the amusing expulsion of ping-pong balls into a crowd of onlookers! Be that so wrong? Lately my physician, the right honourable M. DeSade, has prescribed me rigourous figgings and electro-cellular vibration in order to relieve my hysterical hysteria. But tis not enough! What good is a fig, when thineself hast none other to apply firm yet yielding pressure to its application? Nonesuch! Nonesuch, I sayeth!

Whew! I believe I have worked mineself into a frenzy of spells! Perhaps the ether is too thick for such exertion at this moment!

Still, my offer remains most just and valid. You may accept it at any time, and come calling upon my humble abode in Whitechapel. I shalst be clad in my smoking jacket, suspenders, nightcap, leeches, and petticoat, and not a thing more! We will share courtship woo and plot the demise of Mr. Dickens. Then, we willst get it on, hot and nasty, Lincolnshire-style. Admiral Nelson will bring in the ship to its port-of-call, as it twere!

Wait! Where arest thou going? Have I not failed to not make an effective and demonstrative argument in favour of bumping our unmentionables together? Would thou preferest to take a rain check? Is it my consumption? A warm climate and a steaming cup of earl grey will cease my bloodcoughing! You know what theyith say about a man who spews crimson droplets onto his handkerchief, do you not? If so, please tell me. I have been looking for such a saying.

Alas, tis time for high tea, and a very special Punch & Judy wherein Punch learns a valuable lesson about taking candy from strangers. I must bid you a fond farewell for now, but I shall wait in my drawing chamber for you. And frequently check my timepiece.

Words of Caution from Casey, the Fry Cook

Mr. Caruthers, I have to say I'm very upset that you think you can pass me over for a management position. I saw the app for the Mississauga store manager position on your desk, and I know full well that you'll be leaving a vacancy here. But are you even thinking of recommending a promotion for me- the woman who mops up the puke you frequently leave in the parking lot trying to impress high school boys with your root beer chugging?

I'll have you know, powerful forces lurk behind my cheerful customer service demeanor. I know Wicca, and I used it to destroy Cindy the cheerleading captain when she got in my way. With just a crystal rock and a bottle of lavendar essence, I can summon awesome beasts from hell to drag you down into their depths.

Also, I think I would look snazzy in a manager's tie.

Mark my words, Caruthers. Tell the regional manager that I'd make an excellent replacement for you, or you'll be making a much different exit from this store.

Gauntlet Throwdown, by Mr. Caruthers, Arby's Assistant Manager

That's it. I've had enough of you little so-and-so's and your taunting of the drive-through window. If any of you are man enough to challenge me, let's get it on. Right here, right now, in the parking lot of my Arby's. We'll strip naked, coat ourselves in the surplus grease from the curly-fry vat, and settle things the only way I know how- in a wrestling deathmatch until just one man is left standing.

Madness? THIS IS ARBY'S.

You Disappoint Me, by Mr. Caruthers, Arby's Assistant Manager

Look, I'd just like to know which of you punks stopped up the toilets at Arby's today. It took poor Casey a half hour to unclog them and then she had to clean up the mess. Meanwhile, our customers had to go over to the Tim Horton's across the street.

This is all because I live in a van, isn't it? ISNT'IT?

Please, people. I have a business to run. Wheathorn, tell your little friends to take their horseplay somewhere else.