By Josie Barker
Recently, I’ve found myself quite lonesome, and have resorted to methods I would have never ever pictured myself using in the past. Downloading a platonic friend-finding app was, without a doubt, the lowest point of my social career. I sat at the Olive Garden, anxiously bouncing my legs beneath the table, my eyes fixed on the entrance. Tonight I would meet three complete strangers, all of whom had willingly agreed to spend their evening with me. Whether this was a testament to my charm or a collective failure in judgment remained to be seen.
[enter Beavis]
[Ring] The door chime vibrates the floor beneath me, and I dart my eyes up to see a strange-looking man occupying my field of vision. I jolt my arms upwards, awkwardly unsure whether to hug, handshake, or double high-five this complete stranger. Despite my best attempts at politeness, the yellow-haired boy must have noticed my visible hesitation, as his square smile slowly morphed into a distinct rectangular frown. As we stood there for an uncomfortably long time, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I’d just committed a social faux pas or permanently damaged his already questionable self-esteem.
“Mehhemeh,” emitted the Metallica-shirt-wearing weirdo. “Uh, so I’m Beavis or whatever. Where’s the bathroom?”
I inspected him briefly, beginning with his shoes, which appeared to have been involved in some sort of chemical incident. His blue Metallica shirt, decorated with what I could only assume were cigarette burns, complemented his general disregard for personal hygiene. I nodded politely, wondering whether his mother knew he’d left the house looking like that. I watched in awe as this disheveled specimen continuously requested nachos from the increasingly irritated waiter. After Olive Garden turned down his demand, Beavis proceeded to eat an alarming amount of breadsticks. I gawked as crumbs flew out of his mouth onto my cutlery; his heavy breathing while tucking into the Italian batons spooked me.
[enter Clavicular]
Shortly after my introduction to Beavis, my second friend nominee entered the establishment. A remarkably self-assured man strutted toward our table, lowering himself into the seat at the head with the confidence of someone who had personally funded and approved the conception and construction of the entire restaurant. He surveyed our table with an expression of profound disappointment, as though he’d mistakenly walked into a support group for people with no hope of social advancement. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what planet he believed himself to be on, although I was fairly certain it wasn’t Earth. The cheaply-crafted chair squeaked about a hundred times before Clavicular settled himself into a spot in which he insisted had the best lighting to elevate his jaw-positioning. The Martian boy checked me out, letting out a grunt. “Ha. Your gonial angle is unfortunate,” he remarked. “Yeah! Yeah!” The blue-eyed boy blurted, slamming his fist against the table. I slowly turned toward Beavis, absolutely astonished that a man who appeared to have lost a fight with a lawn mower had the audacity to agree with him. “Hush, you complete and utter waste of space,” barked Clavicular. “Your maxillary projection is genuinely concerning. Have you even considered ascending?” Oblivious to what any of that vocabulary meant, I attempted to shift the conversation. “So, where’s our fourth?” Clavicular shrugs, narrowing his eyes at a shadowed figure in the corner. “Not to freak anyone out, but that guy totally has been mimicking you the whole time,” Clavicular whispers to me.
[enter mime]
Our final guest approached the table in a striped shirt, suspenders, and an expression of complete emotional vacancy. His face, painted an alarming shade of white, seemed to glow beneath the fluorescent Olive Garden lighting, evoking the unsettling atmosphere of a Parisian street performance gone horribly wrong. He stood beside our table, starting blankly at us. I briefly considered whether he was an actual person or a particularly elaborate centerpiece. I mean It appeared he was attempting to battle Beavis in the more cartoonish-looking category, and frankly, he’s won. The mime sat down on an imaginary chair, displaying the most impressive stationary squat I’ve ever seen. Clavicular squints at him as if he can’t tell what’s a miss, as if he can’t see the literal freaking mime right in front of his chiseled face, yet in some odd fashion, he appears to be inspecting the pantomimist’s physique. Clavicular eyes widened.“Wow,” he whispers, eyes focused on the monotone clown. “Your facial harmony is immaculate!” exclaims the mogger, “you have the most magnificent positive canthal tilt; usually I prescribe hardmaxxing, but you could get away with soft maxxing! I bet you hardly have to mew, you’re genuinely a natural-born Chad, super high on the PSL scale.”
[the mime pretends to be trapped in an invisible box] “Unbelievable. A true genetic masterpiece,” beams Clav. Between a canonically hideous deformed caricature and a freaky French Gru-outfitted inspired performer, it appears I’m the ugly duck of the bunch.
While Beavis continues to chow down on breadsticks, Clavicular insists carbohydrates are the root of his facial deformity. Clav flags the waiter down, asking for the nutritional information on every item on the menu; meanwhile, the mime silently points at imaginary dishes. Perplexed as to how I ended up dining with this odd bunch, I continue to chew on a Caesar salad while the server gradually stops asking questions and begins placing random food items on the table while avoiding any sort of eye contact.
As Beavis continued to inhale the unlimited breadsticks, our waiter approached with the check. The mime sticks his hand into his imaginary purse, retrieving an imaginary card, and hands it to the server with an expression of immense financial confidence. “Unfortunately, sir, we don’t accept that kind of currency,” the waiter replied. I glance over at Beavis, hopeful he’ll cave into courtesy and pay for or at least contribute towards our meal, but instead he turns his pockets inside out and reveals the contents of his cavities: beer bottle caps, about a dozen wads of chewed gum, and what appeared to be an entire ecosystem of insects. I reach over to Clav, hoping his YouTube money will save the day, but instead he swats my hand down, folding his arms in revulsion. “It’s 2026,” he scoffed. “Men shouldn’t have to pay for foids; that’s a sub-human thing to do. Maybe I’d compensate for a true Stacy, but certainly not a hiplet. I slam my forehead onto the sauce-stained sticky table and throw my wallet at Clav. He pays with my AMEX, and gets up to leave with the mime. Beavis, already gone, leaves me alone, surrounded by marinara-stained napkins, abandoned breadsticks, and the remnants of what I had foolishly believed would be a fruitful social endeavor. I check my phone, only to discover Clavicular had unmatched me on the friend-finding app, leaving me as the only loser left in Olive Garden. Also, I’m pretty sure Clav snagged a twenty off me.