Ben's at it again

OK, so every reunion planning meeting is an adventure with Ben Penick. Last week, Ben's creepy stalking of Peter Stuercke, this week, our tall friend went the rounds with one Cole Mayhew. Here's the transcript, with a little editorial context mingled in.

BEN: Hey Cole, what's up? This is Ben Penick. Long time no see and all that. You coming to the reunion?

COLE: Aha! Mr. Penick. Have I ever told you about your lovely face? Your face — it's lovely.

[Ben knows that Cole's go-to jokes are face-related. Clearly, Cole is trying to divert the discussion away from the reunion for some reason. Ben won't have any of it.]

BEN: You live in St. George, right? Seriously, you have to come. No excuses, Cole.

COLE: Your message has been intercepted by the FCC. You are being investigated for goat-loving. Agent H.R. Shovenstuff will soon visit you. That is all.

[Ben is amused, but also grumpy that Cole keeps hijacking the conversation. This would have been cute a month ago, but this is crunch time for rounding up reunion stragglers. Ben decides to go for the jugular. He starts typing...]

BEN (audibly, not text): Freakin' freakness! My phone is dead.

[Without another word, Ben gets up and runs outside, slamming Brad's front door behind him. The committee wonders what just happened, gives a collective shrug and moves on. Meanwhile, Ben is in his car, starting the engine so he can pump life back into his mortified phone.]

BEN: Ha ha. You're funny. Now, for serious, what do I need to do to get you there?

COLE: Mr. Shovenstuff will take no further questions.

BEN: Hey, that's funny, but I'm ...........

[Ben shrieks again because his phone pooped out, so he runs back outside. Those still inside hear the roar of his engine as he tries again to revive the hacking, dying phone.]

BEN: Hey, that's funny, but I'm not messing around here. We've put a lot of work into this thing, and you live in St. George. What's your excuse?

[Clearly, the combined stress of planning the reunion, resuscitating a dying phone and wading through Cole's silly farce is getting to Ben. Cole senses this, so he opts for serious for a moment.]

COLE: Well, my wife is extremely pregnant and is due that week.

[Ben has heard that Cole has progeny, but he's never seen them with his own eye. In his current crazed state, Ben doesn't accept this as a valid excuse.]

BEN: Are you sure? I never even met that supposed first kid of yours. Gimme proof — pictures don't count. You could get those anywhere. I want an in-person meeting with said kiddo.

[Just as Cole begins contemplating how weird this is getting, it gets wierder with Ben's next text.]

BEN: Sorry, had to plug in my phone. Anyway, plan on a paternity test, too. I already hired it out. We'll meet you at the [name removed for privacy reasons] clinic at {time removed for privacy reasons]. If you don't show, I'll assume this whole "paterfamilias" thing is an elaborate hoax.

[As the world's biggest fan of sarcasm, Cole knows what is and what ain't. This ain't sarcasm. Maybe if he ignores it, Ben will call off the dogs.]

BEN: Furthermore, you should know about our plans for people in St. George who willfully miss the reunion. There's no excuse, Cole. Here's how it will go down: it's about midnight, perfectly dark and warm still from a full day of 100 degrees baking the ground. You're nestled in bed with your wife (still childless, of course, because you're a huge liar).

As you slumber, a caravan consisting of six high-occupancy vehicles spills onto your street, headlights off. Doors open ever so quietly, and people dressed head-to-toe in black scatter like ninjas. The whole ordeal takes about 90 minutes, but the impact is lasting.

You wake up like it's any other morning, except you hear the hum of helicopters outside. Not giving it much thought, you crawl your lazy butt out of bed (it's about 10:30 a.m. by now), drag your sorry @!# into the living room and flip on the T.V. while you wait for your Pop Tarts to warm. You flip to find your favorite (The Backyardigans, of course) but the same thing's on every channel. It's an aerial shot of a huge pile of toilet-paper.

As you sit there, the oxygen finally waking your brain from its hemlock slumber, the pieces start to come together. Those CNN cameras are aimed down on YOUR neighborhood! Your house is most definitely hidden under at least 300 pounds of toilet paper. And the sprinklers are on.

After yelping aloud, you run to the garage, seeing as the front door is crowded with reporters clamoring for a comment. If you can just get to the car, you figure you can escape to your favorite thinking spot (Denny's, not the "cowboy one") to gather your thoughts. You press the automatic garage-door opener. Your heart skips a beat. The opened garage doesn't reveal fresh air, sunlight and the freedom of his driveway. Rather, you only see the sticky side of duct tape — a solid wall of duct tape.