Our oven decides to crap-out the day before Christmas. Thanks oven. Now we have to call the Whirlpool Man, otherwise we eat snow. We schedule an appointment via the most complex phone chain known to humankind. Now Thursday, our scheduled appointment, we’re required to remain seated from 8am to noon, awaiting the arrival of some oven genius. Thanks service folk.
The technician arrives at 10:52am. He’s a perfectly puffy-faced John C. Reilly.
He’s friendly but basically all business. I straddle the counter, reach deep into the bowels of our kitchen and plug-in the oven (I put the oven in time-out for 3 days for ineptitude). The interface cheerfully lights up, its own Christmas spectacular.
“You’re sh*tting me.” I’m not pleased. This is costing me $100 bucks, and I performed all the labor.
“Hey. It works.” He’s writing up the paperwork.
I need to have some fun with this, “Anyone ever tell you you resemble John C. Reilly?”
Breaking the technician code of conduct, interfacing with me as if he were human, embedding his glasses to his forehead, “You know, I have. Who’s this guy?”
“He’s a great character actor. Does comedies, dramas, movies, Broadway–you name it.” I’m a fan.
“I wish I had his money.”
“Me too.” I cut the $100 check.
I’m not satisfied. I want my money’s worth. I adapt my favorite John C. Reilly line from Boogie Nights (1997).
“You know, some people say Reilly looks like Han Solo.”
Handing me the receipt, “Who’s Han Solo?”
I seriously say this, “We’re done here.”
In the end, it sucks when your oven goes kaput, but it’s cool when John C. Reilly is your clueless repairman.