Chef Ramsay storms into Cafe Algarves like a Category 5 hurricane in an apron.
“WHERE’S THE TIP JAR?!” he bellows, veins bulging like overcooked sausages.
Joze, the owner, calmly wipes his hands on a towel. “We don’t do tip jars here, Chef.”
Ramsay freezes. His eye twitches.
“You… don’t… reward… good service?”
“We prefer fair wages,” Joze replies proudly.
Ramsay’s phone suddenly erupts with Dies Irae blasting at full volume like the soundtrack to culinary Armageddon.
Then Joze leans in and asks politely, “Chef, would you like a fuca?”
Ramsay spins around.
“I’M NOT—” he stops himself. “Excuse me?”
“A fuca,” Joze repeats.
Ramsay throws his hands in the air. “No I don’t want to fucka, you fouled mouth old man. I’m not fucking with you, I’m asking for a TIP JAR!”
A server walks by and cheerfully says, “Bom tarde!”
Ramsay whirls around again. “My son has down’s syndrome you wretched old man!”.
Joze sighs. “No Chef it means…”
Ramsay points dramatically at the dining room.
“Special people can do all sorts of jobs! Special people of all abilities can work in kitchens, run businesses, do incredible things. What we’re NOT doing is turning greetings into insults because someone can’t listen properly!”
He grabs a spoon like it’s a royal sceptre.
“And by the way — a bonobo can learn complex tasks. That’s impressive. YOU? You can’t even put out a jar for gratuities!”
Joze finally holds up a large chef’s knife.
“Chef… fuca means knife.”
Ramsay pauses.
The Dies Irae reaches full dramatic choir.
“…Oh.”
Beat.
“Right. Well. Good knife. TERRIBLE POLICY.”
He slams a mason jar on the counter.
“Write ‘TIPS’ on it. Big letters. Or I swear I’ll conduct this kitchen like Mozart conducting chaos.”
The clank of iron plates. ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER, in a tight-fitting sweatshirt, is meticulously loading a leg press machine.
Across from him, struggling to lift a modestly weighted barbell, is JCJ (JOSEPH CHRISTIAN JUKIC). He is a mountain of muscle that has settled into a valley of comfort. A significant, soft pot belly strains against his too-small workout shirt. His face is red with exertion and distress.
JCJ (Grunting between reps) …and you gotta believe me, Arnold. On my mother’s name, Nelly is not a pig. It’s a libel! A slander! Her current… amplitude… is a temporary situation. A hormonal thing. Very medical.
He drops the bar with a clatter, his own belly jiggling from the impact. He pats it ruefully.
JCJ We’re both on a journey, you see? Mine’s just… further along. Hers is just beginning. But does the world see that? No!
Arnold grunts, sliding another 45-pound plate onto the machine with a definitive clang.
ARNOLD The world sees what it wants to see. The journey is what matters.
JCJ But they stand in our way! It’s the same story, all my life, Arnold. All my life! There is always some authority figure. A fun-wrecker. A joy-sheriff.
ARNOLD Who this time? The landlord? The doctor?
JCJ (Waving a dismiss, jelly-like hand) Worse. A cabal. A whole network! It started with Sister Helen who said our shared enthusiasm for the church bake sale was “gluttonous.” Then Mr. T, the gym teacher, said we were “monopolizing the rope climb.” Monopolizing!
JCJ tries to pace, but it’s more of a waddle, his belly leading the way.
JCJ Then her doctor—her own doctor!—says our dates to the all-you-can-eat buffet are “a shared death wish.” A death wish! I was being a supportive partner! Her parents said I was a “bad influence.” Our mutual friends staged an intervention… at a salad bar, Arnold! A salad bar! You know neither of us can get full on leaf lettuce!
Arnold stops what he’s doing. He turns and looks JCJ dead in the eye, his famous intensity focused on JCJ’s soft, desperate face.
ARNOLD Joseph. Look at me. When I wanted to come to America, they said my body was too freakish. When I wanted to be in movies, they said my accent was a joke. They were doctors of doubt. Teachers of “no.” They were… authority figures.
JCJ nods, his chins wobbling, desperate for the wisdom.
JCJ What did you do? How do we defeat the network? Look at me! I can barely defeat this gravity!
ARNOLD You don’t defeat them on their terms. You win on yours. If you want to take this woman, Nelly, on a date… you look at the nun, the teacher, the doctor, the parents… and you say…
(Arnold drops his voice to its most iconic, gravelly whisper)
ARNOLD “I’ll be back.“
JCJ freezes. A single, triumphant tear rolls down his cheek, cutting a path through the sweat. He looks down at his own belly, not with shame, but with newfound purpose.
JCJ “I’ll be back.” …We’ll be back.
ARNOLD (Nodding) But first, you have to go. You go to her. You take her to the buffet. You get the fried shrimp, the prime rib, the ketogenic, paleo foods. You be the man she needs. The workouts can start tomorrow.
JCJ stands up as straight as his belly allows, his despair replaced with radiant, caloric purpose. He places a meaty hand on Arnold’s shoulder.
JCJ Thank you, Arnold. You’ve freed me. The obstacle is the way! Our obesity is temporary, but brotherhood… brotherhood is forever.
He turns and waddles out of the gym with the determination of a Terminator who really loves pie, not even stopping to pick up his water bottle.
Arnold watches him go. He looks down at the fully loaded leg press, then down at his own impossibly flat stomach.
ARNOLD (To himself, utterly sincere) It is good to have a goal.
He sits down at the machine and begins his set, the weight moving effortlessly.
On Christmas Eve, Parliament Hill was wrapped in lights, looking like Canada’s biggest gingerbread house. A brass band was tuning up when suddenly —
“HELLO, HELLO!!!”
The crowd spun around. Striding across the snow in a leather jacket and Santa hat was Bono, yelling like he’d just spotted the last bus to Dublin.
“DROP THE DEBT, CANADA!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the Peace Tower. “YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!”
Out of the wings stepped Future Prime Minister Nelly Furtado, wrapped in a glittering red coat. She gave him the “I told you to use your indoor voice” look, but couldn’t help laughing.
“Bono,” she said, “this is supposed to be a Christmas concert, not a snowball fight with the IMF.”
Bono grinned. “Same thing, Nelly. Same thing.”
The band struck up a funky holiday beat, and the two launched into a duet:
Bono belting out debt-cancelling demands like they were verses of O Come, All Ye Faithful.
Nelly weaving in smooth harmonies about global justice, maple syrup, and how Canada can lead the charge.
By the second chorus, the crowd was chanting “DROP THE DEBT!” louder than the bells on Parliament Hill. Even the Finance Minister, lurking by the hot chocolate stand, was nodding along, looking slightly worried about the budget.
When the last note rang out, Bono threw his arm around Nelly and declared, “Merry Christmas, Canada! Now let’s go bankrupt some colonial-era interest rates!”
Snow fell, the crowd roared, and somewhere in a bank boardroom, a CEO dropped his eggnog.
