John McCain: (pinching the waitress’ ass) Can I call you My Friend, My Friend?
John McCain: Listen while I give you some straight talk here. I do not approve of pasta. Not the kind of thing we do here in this ever fine country of ours. Nothing more than floppy little, carbohydrate delivery sticks. And my America… does… not… do… pasta. You hearing what my slogan-makers yappin, My Friend? No to pasta!
(silence, as the overwhelmed waitress stares, her thirty-four pieces of flair, coming to rest against her ill-fitting, bright green vest)
John McCain: Good, then with that out of the way… I’ll take the Spaghetti with meatballs.
(More silence, the waitress adjusting her “I ? The Geneva Convention” pin)
John McCain: (simmering) Some sort of problem, My Friend?
Waitress: No, no… its just… I think… technically… Spaghetti IS pasta.
John McCain: (red faced, annoyed) No’st not.
Waitress: Yes, it is.
John McCain: (redder faced, angry) No’st not.
Waitress: With all due respect–
John McCain: (redder still, furious) Look, I, of all people, know Pasta! For the first five-and-half years I was married all I got was Pasta from my dear Cindy Lou here…
(Across the table, Cindy McCain smiles, but on account of how tight her hair is pulled back, that causes her leg to kick out, tripping a bus boy.)
John McCain: Macaroni, fusilli, lasagna. Every day for five-a-half years, My Friend. Do you know what kind of torture that was? But that torture, My Friend, taught me clearly (pounding a fist) what IS pasta and what IS NOT Pasta.
(Cindy McCain nods some more, her limbs flailing like a marionette operated by a puppeteer on some bad cocaine/caffeine/methamphetamine cocktail.)
John McCain: Spaghetti is not pasta!
(the waitress swallows hard, craning her neck to look for her manager, who is currently racing around another table, simultaneously performing the Heimlich Maneuver on President George Bush, Vice President Dick Cheney, Condoleezza Rice and an already dead Colin Powell… all of which are… literally… choking on the Five Cheese Ziti al Forno)
John McCain: (brandishing his fork like a weapon) Go… get… my… Spaghetti.
(what follows is a chaotic scene, rivaling the violence of any of the battles in the film 300, wherein John McCain forces the waitress to stand, naked, on a chair with dogs barking at her… Cindy McCain mistakenly snorts the salt right off the table… and the members of the current administration race into the kitchen to gorge on the uncooked gnocchi. then, after all the violence and madness…)
John McCain: (calmly sitting, folding his napkin and placing it in his lap) Then for dessert… I think I’ll have the Denial-of-Global-Warming pie, with a pool of what-was-once ice cream on the side.