One glance around the room tells you that people are NOT enjoying Al's latest idea for today's special: shriveled chicken livers on toast with a "special" sauce. This gives you an idea - actually, it's more of an irresistible urge, like the time you mooned your aunt at the Thanksgiving dinner table. But that's a story for another day. Regardless, you take a sampling of the disgusting Sunday Special in your hand, shiver in revulsion at the unexpected weight of the thing, and fling it at a group of jocks who look like they might have a sense of humor. They shriek like girls as they are pelted with the goop, laugh, and begin to toss their own meals in various directions. Mayhem ensues, and within moments, Arnold's is a cesspool of unsanitary foodstuffs.

You seem to have achieved very little by this action, but you sure had a lot of fun. The other restaurant goers seem to agree. Suddenly, the laughter is extinguished as Al himself emerges from the kitchen. He looks forlorn as he glances around to take in the carnage, and you can't help but feel a bit sorry for the guy.

"Look, Al, dude." you start. "Sorry about the mess, man. We were just playing around."

Al doesn't answer, he just looks at you with that melancholic daze. You suddenly notice that one of his eyelids is twitching. He takes a deep breath, and says:

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..."

While everyone's used to hearing him utter this catchphrase, it's never sounded so disturbing, so incredibly detached of emotion. The restaurant swiftly drains of customers, leaving only you and Al.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..." Al absently mutters, as he reaches into his pocket and extracts an exceptionally large, frozen cucumber. He bats his palm with it. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..." he says again, as if incapable of speaking normally anymore. His eyelid's twitch seems to be spreading across his face, causing a nostril, the corner of his mouth and one of his ears to twitch along with it.

"Uh. Al. Now. Don't do anything you might regre-" you start to say.

But before you can finish, the cucumber whacks you across the face. A second hit strikes you in the gut, and you double over. One in the neck. The back of the head. A well-placed smack splits your spinal column. Al just keeps beating you and beating you, endlessly repeating "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah...", accentuating each yeah with a strike of the cucumber. While you soon after lost consciousness, it's plausible to assume that Al kept beating your lifeless corpse all night long, all the way until the cucumber was defrosted.

SUNDAY, MONDAY, START OVER!
TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, START OVER!
THURSDAY, FRIDAY, START OVER!
SATURDAY! START OVER! LOSING ALL WEEK WITH YOU!