It doesn't take much to get Mac hyped up, and a bunch of these new employees telling him he's going to get something great definitely do the ticket. Mind filled with gold bathtubs and Ferraris and a two-way ticket back home only he can go through, Mac can't help but be smiling as he's herded into the room, nor can he help the way that smile wilts and fades into a bereft expression comprised of disappointment, resignation and betrayal.
Even Mac knows this cake was for Linda.
He still tries it, because even cake addressed to someone else is probably better than the meatball that literally bounced in the mess hall. He snatches a neon green fork before anyone even gets the chance to look at it and loads it up with Linda's Y, then takes a nibble. It's crap. He knew it was crap, by the weird sugary condensation on the outside to the fact that when he stabbed it with a fork it crumbled like granola. But somehow, just somehow, he had nursed the tiniest iota of hope, and he now has to live with the bitter consequences of that.
He tosses it over his shoulder, and it seems to go out-of-sight, out-of-mind, because he doesn't even seem to recognize when it smashes against the floor or against another person innocently minding their own business ten feet behind him.
II. Karaoke Machine
Since this party is lame as shit, Mac loses interest in anything structured within about forty seconds, and ends up roaming around like a wayward sheep in a field, with the table full of terrible cake as the grazing patch he periodically returns to. When the corporate suits told him there was going to be an exciting surprise, he pictured some Wolf of Wall Street splendor, with money raining from the ceiling and scantily clad people in million dollar bikinis* giving free lapdances to any Tom, Dick and Harry with an employee I.D. This weird sheetcake thing isn't even lame and predictable; this weird sheetcake thing is a blow against Mac's entire faith in American Capitalism.
("We're not in America," a corporate suit says to him the first time he complains, to which he responds "if I don't know where we are my money's on America because this country is so huge, dude".)
Eventually he ends up at the karaoke machine, which, through skimming it, has a large selection of lame music that Mac would pull the plug on (literally) and a small but workable selection of Christian rock. Tons of Switchfoot, which almost makes up for the urban crap. The problem mostly is that there's a sign that says "out of order" and when he tries to play it and get this party going, no sound comes on.
So he knocks it over and kicks it. That usually gets things to work.
*Mac has neither seen Wolf of Wall Street nor purchased a bikini in his life.
III. Champagne
Mac feels like he deserves some kind of commendation for not having a hissyfit when the proffered beverage was knock-off Martinelli's, and yet no one emerged from the shadows to praise him for this magnanimous act of fortitude and temperance. In fact, people aren't really paying much attention to him at all, probably on account of the fact that he's milling around with a giant talking rabbit and other more evidently remarkable beings. Mac's left out in the cold, in his opinion. He has to go be proactive and introduce himself to a bunch of strangers, and it's only now starting to occur to Mac that he hasn't really made any new friends in like, almost thirty years.
The flop sweat is brutal, but it's at least mitigated by the fact that he hacked the hell out of the sleeves on his coveralls and is now blasting bare arms with totally badass tattoos. He can mostly mop that away with napkins, which he does rigorously. The general sense of unease is harder to combat, and he keeps circling around the table with the cake, not eating anything but pushing things around with a fork before tossing them and rearranging paper cups full of brightly-colored plastic knives. At some point, some corporate interns run in to refill the fake Martinelli's, and they leave a bottle of the good stuff; since Mac's lingering, he's the first to see that there's a bottle of real champagne mixed in among all the "sparkling grape" and "effervescent raspberry" pussy ciders. He takes it to examine, and then he takes it to keep.
True, the champagne is meant for everyone but, as the Good Lord says: "sucks to be them". Mac tries with marginal success to slip the bottle of champagne through the armhole of his modified coverall into his clothing for covert transportation.
Mac | OTA
It doesn't take much to get Mac hyped up, and a bunch of these new employees telling him he's going to get something great definitely do the ticket. Mind filled with gold bathtubs and Ferraris and a two-way ticket back home only he can go through, Mac can't help but be smiling as he's herded into the room, nor can he help the way that smile wilts and fades into a bereft expression comprised of disappointment, resignation and betrayal.
Even Mac knows this cake was for Linda.
He still tries it, because even cake addressed to someone else is probably better than the meatball that literally bounced in the mess hall. He snatches a neon green fork before anyone even gets the chance to look at it and loads it up with Linda's Y, then takes a nibble. It's crap. He knew it was crap, by the weird sugary condensation on the outside to the fact that when he stabbed it with a fork it crumbled like granola. But somehow, just somehow, he had nursed the tiniest iota of hope, and he now has to live with the bitter consequences of that.
He tosses it over his shoulder, and it seems to go out-of-sight, out-of-mind, because he doesn't even seem to recognize when it smashes against the floor or against another person innocently minding their own business ten feet behind him.
II. Karaoke Machine
Since this party is lame as shit, Mac loses interest in anything structured within about forty seconds, and ends up roaming around like a wayward sheep in a field, with the table full of terrible cake as the grazing patch he periodically returns to. When the corporate suits told him there was going to be an exciting surprise, he pictured some Wolf of Wall Street splendor, with money raining from the ceiling and scantily clad people in million dollar bikinis* giving free lapdances to any Tom, Dick and Harry with an employee I.D. This weird sheetcake thing isn't even lame and predictable; this weird sheetcake thing is a blow against Mac's entire faith in American Capitalism.
("We're not in America," a corporate suit says to him the first time he complains, to which he responds "if I don't know where we are my money's on America because this country is so huge, dude".)
Eventually he ends up at the karaoke machine, which, through skimming it, has a large selection of lame music that Mac would pull the plug on (literally) and a small but workable selection of Christian rock. Tons of Switchfoot, which almost makes up for the urban crap. The problem mostly is that there's a sign that says "out of order" and when he tries to play it and get this party going, no sound comes on.
So he knocks it over and kicks it. That usually gets things to work.
*Mac has neither seen Wolf of Wall Street nor purchased a bikini in his life.
III. Champagne
Mac feels like he deserves some kind of commendation for not having a hissyfit when the proffered beverage was knock-off Martinelli's, and yet no one emerged from the shadows to praise him for this magnanimous act of fortitude and temperance. In fact, people aren't really paying much attention to him at all, probably on account of the fact that he's milling around with a giant talking rabbit and other more evidently remarkable beings. Mac's left out in the cold, in his opinion. He has to go be proactive and introduce himself to a bunch of strangers, and it's only now starting to occur to Mac that he hasn't really made any new friends in like, almost thirty years.
The flop sweat is brutal, but it's at least mitigated by the fact that he hacked the hell out of the sleeves on his coveralls and is now blasting bare arms with totally badass tattoos. He can mostly mop that away with napkins, which he does rigorously. The general sense of unease is harder to combat, and he keeps circling around the table with the cake, not eating anything but pushing things around with a fork before tossing them and rearranging paper cups full of brightly-colored plastic knives. At some point, some corporate interns run in to refill the fake Martinelli's, and they leave a bottle of the good stuff; since Mac's lingering, he's the first to see that there's a bottle of real champagne mixed in among all the "sparkling grape" and "effervescent raspberry" pussy ciders. He takes it to examine, and then he takes it to keep.
True, the champagne is meant for everyone but, as the Good Lord says: "sucks to be them". Mac tries with marginal success to slip the bottle of champagne through the armhole of his modified coverall into his clothing for covert transportation.