Has this ever happened to you?
A family of four, in full outer space exploration gear, circles a block in their 1980 Chevrolet Malibu Restaurant Excursion Module (REM). “Daddy…” the airwaves crackle and hiss as a voice comes from the back seat. “Can we stop somewhere? I really have to go…”
“Father to Mission Control,” an older, male voice asks, “Father to Mission Control. Request permission to park for momentary bathroom EVA. Over…”
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, a fierce discussion of bathroom alternatives takes place at Mission Control, Houston. “Yeah, negatory, Father,” former astronaut John Glenn, the voice of Mission Control, eventually advises. “Repeat: negatory on bathroom EVA request. Telemetry readings indicate a parking space opening up in T minus four minutes…23 seconds and counting…21…20…”
“But, Daddy!” the voice from the backs eat whines. “I can’t hold it in that long!”
A new voice breaks in: “This is Mother speaking. Johnny, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times: do that before we leave the house on a mission!”
Father looks at the neghbourhood as the family continues to circle. “Gosh, Mission Control,” he says, “this is really beautiful. I wish you could see it…”
Ten minutes later, parking procedures completed successfully, the family enters the restaurant. There is a long line of families, each wearing the latest National Aeronautics and Space Administration fashions, milling about uncomfortably. “How many, please?” the waitress floats up to them and asks.
“Four,” Father tells her.
“That will be at least 45 minutes,” the waitress advises, and floats away. “Mission Control…?” Father tentatively asks. “You got it,” Mission Control responds. “T minus 45 minutes and counting…44 minutes, 58 seconds…57…”
A crisis starts to develop around T minus 12 minutes, eight seconds. Martha, the youngest, complains, “I’m hungry. When are we gonna eat?”
“Yeah, not to worry, little one,” the man from Mission Control tries to comfort her. “You’ll have a table real soon.”
“But,” Martha insists, “I’m hungry now!”
“Is there anything we can do, Mission Control?” Father anxiously asks.
“Computers indicate situation serious, but not critical,” Mission Control advises. “If possible, wait this problem out. If not, will start computers working on dining alternatives. In the meantime, please limit enquiries, Father: they are making it difficult to count!”
Eventually, give or take a few minutes, the family is seated at a table. Five minutes later, menus are brought, and, with the aid of Mission Control’s vast computer resources, satisfactory dinner choices are made. Twenty minutes after that, a plate of salad is put before Father, who says: “That’s one small Caesar for (hiss) man…”
Cut to close-up of a young woman speaking directly to the camera. “Is going out for dinner a big production with your family? It doesn’t have to be, you know. Hi. I’m Wendy McDonald, founder of the Burger Bar chain of fast food restaurants. We guarantee the fastest service of any restaurant, or you don’t have to eat the food. In fact, we have a strict limit on each table – if you’re not finished in 15 minutes, our courteous staff throws you out so you can’t finish your meal! So, the next time you promise to take the family for dinner, why waste time? Go straight to the nearest Burger Bar restaurant, and tell them you’re in a hurry!”
FADE TO GREY:
CUT TO:
John Maynard Keynes and Milton Friedman stand in front of a huge World Mud Wrestling Federation logo. Between them, microphone in hand, stands Michael Rasputin, host of the show. “This week,” he says, “on Championship Mud Wrestling, we have a tremendous grudge match between two of the toughest economic philosophers to come out of the 20th century: Milton Friedman…”
Friedman growls in an unpleasant, gutteral way.
“And, John Maynard Keynes…”
Keynes, looking directly at the camera, mildly says, “I’m not certain this is the best way to resolve disputes in economics, but rest assured that I will kick Milton Friedman’s a -” Friedman cuts him off: “Oh, yeah? I beat you before, and I’m gonna beat you again! You’re old! You’re ugly! You’re finished!”
Keynes lunges at Friedman, but Rasputin stands between them. “You got in a lucky shot, punk!” Keynes screams. “But, I’ve always had the stronger philosophy, and I’m gonna cream your sorry -“
“Well,” Rasputin cuts in, “that’s Championship Mud Wrestling on NOBC. Keynes vs. Friedman in a grudge match that could determine the dominant monetary policy for generations to come. Check local listings for a time in your area.”
FADE TO GREY: