The Disagreeable Dinner Flashcards
(Sara, wearing a bathrobe, staggers in)
Good morning.
And I wish it was night and I was still in bed because your– woke me up again last night, Tom. Boy, and I thought your snoring was hell on earth. Now you’re talking? What’s next? Sleepwalking?
I’m sorry, Sara. I’ve never talked in my sleep before.
Actually, you weren’t talking. You were singing.
No way!
Yes! At three A.M, you sang “I Will Survive;” of all songs.
Did I at least sing on key?
Hardly.
Then that makes it worse.
And that’s the third night in a row your, huh, “lilting
voice” woke me up. Jeez. Where’s Autotune when you need it?
Man, I don’t think I’ve talked in my sleep before, let alone sing. What’s going on?
Ya know…it started the night we ate at that Mexican restaurant. It was on the Mexican holiday called Day of the
Dead when–Uh-oh.
What’s so “uh-oh” about the Day of the Dead?
Remember what our waiter told us about that day? About how the souls of the dead return to earth?
So?
So maybe that talking and singing voice that came out of you, wasn’t your voice. It was someone’s soul.
C’mon, honey! I got a soul singer inside me? I–
Actually, I’m thinking–maybe there was something in the f-
f-f-f-f-f-ood. Or…someone?
What’s wrong?
How did it get so c-c-c-c-old in here? Excuse me. Whew.
Are you all right?
I-I-I feel weird… bloated… gassy…
What the hell…?
No, who the hell’s down there? Down me?
You can throw your voice so it comes out of your butt? Talk about a marketable talent.
That wasn’t me talking. I swear.
You’re serious.
I am. Who-who-said that?
Put your hand in the air.
Now what?
A ghost. Namely, me.
Then…you must be one tiny ghost.
No need to height shame me. I am what I am.
Wait. You’re a real ghost? In me? In my butt?
Of all places you could haunt, what’s a ghost doing inside there; haunting up my husband?
And who do we have the pleasure of talking to?
My name’s Frank Lucallo. In my mortal life, I cooked for Consuelo.
Of Consuelo’s Restaurante?
If you want to call it food. I was Consuelo’s secret lover until her husband caught us canoodling and jammed my face
into a pot of refried beans that was sitting on Table 8. He suffocated me but on the Day of the Dead, my soul rises from the bottom of that pot and settles in whoever eats the refried beans at Table 8.
So—so-so-so on that day, you went from being a human to–
–being a ghostly presence every year. Yep. Since only you ate those beans at Table 8, you now have me at eight A.M. And my journey stopped at the end. Your end.
I’ve got a spirit in my sphincter? God, I’m beginning to think this isn’t my day.
Scoot, ghost bro!
Ow! Don’t do that! I’m not into pain when I’m sober.
I’m just trying to–Mr. Frank! You leave and find another butt to haunt!
Right now!!
Tough tamales. I’m staying in your man’s can. And lower your voices. Show some respect for the dead–or else.
Yeah, Sara. Maybe we shouldn’t get a ghost all riled up, okay?
