(Scene: A husky Italian chef is standing in front of his family in a dimly lit living room. He is visibly upset, his chef's hat in his hands, his eyes cast down at the floor. He is explaining to his family that his Italian restaurant has gone out of business, and that the tastiness of Bertolli frozen dinners is to blame.)
Man: So I’m afraid that we’ll have to split you kids up and send you to live with some distant relatives. Also, honey, I spoke with the bank today, and... (He begins to cry, his voice growing shaky.) They’re going to take the house.
Woman: What?
(Man nods his head, wipes tears from his eyes.)
Woman: That’s it! I’m leaving! I’m taking the kids to live with your brother Ernesto, who, I should tell you, I’ve been sleeping with for the past four years!
Man (tearfully): But... but...
Woman: But nothing. And trust me, you could learn a thing or two from Ernesto. Both in the bedroom and the kitchen, Johnny Comequick.
(Woman goes out with children, leaving the man standing alone in the living room. Cut to man’s feet, standing on a stool in a shadowy basement. He can be heard sobbing.)
Man: Damn you Bertolli!
(One foot kicks the stool over. The man’s legs dangle, his body sways gently, ominously.)
Man (chokingly, tearfully): Damn you, Bertolli!
(Pan to family living room, where a man (Ernesto) is having sex with the woman in the pile-driver position.)
Voice-over: Bertolli: Responsible for the deaths of 43 Italian chefs in 2009 alone--so you know it’s good!
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