Waiter at the checkout

“Pooba!” I called, “Where’s all the gumboots!?”

It was 5:30pm on a busy Friday afternoon. I was standing in our meat fridge. Normally it is filled to the brim with thick, juicy cunts… cuts rather of gumboot sirloin. Pooba joined me a stood speechless, staring into the fridge. Every shelf was empty!

On the bottom shelf was a piece of flesh looking suspiciously like a scrotum. I picked it up and held it in front of Pooba’s face.

“Look at this! This is all the meat we have left. In about 15 minutes, we’ll have 93 paying customers in the bistro ordering gumboot sirloins! And you expect me to feed them with this!?”

Pooba shrugged. “Sorry boss, I went down the supermarket today to pick up some gumboots but they just looked at me like I was an idiot”

I resisted the temptation to suggest that the staff at the supermarket may have assessed Pooba correctly. Instead, I instructed Pooba to hold the fort and the bistro, and headed off in the direction of the Poopquick shopping centre.

It was 5:45 by the time I got there, and the Poopquick supermarket was nearly closing for the day. I grabbed a trolley and dashed in, just before the entry gates were closed and locked by a big, thick, gay looking employee.

“We’re closing in five minutes” the big fag said. “You better be quick.”

I stared up at the giant pansy. “Don’t worry, I’ll be in and out before you know it!” I said, grabbing a broom handle from a nearby display and penetrating his inner rectum with swift hand-over-hand motions. The giant gay guy died from internal bleeding in his anus in hospital three days later.

Having dealt with the large poofter, I pushed my trolley through the fruit and veg department, throwing random vegetables in as I went along. One of the displays in the department featured watermelon stuffed with kerosene. I thought these were rather cute and tossed a couple into the trolley. One of them rolled off the top of the trolley and disappered into the deli department, coming to a halt underneath a chicken oven. Three staff members carrying a fire extinguisher converged on the melon but they were too late. The explosion sent chicken wings, jarlsberg cheese and singed gall bladders flying into the air.

As I approached the dairy case, I heard a message on the P.A.

“Attention shoppers, the time is now 6pm, and this store has closed. Please proceed to the nearest checkout immediately. Failure to comply will result in immediate castration and testicle torture, followed by an anal exam performed by a 9,000 pound man. Thank you and have a nice day”

I was shocked! Not wanting to have my anus examined by a tubby geezer, I proceeded quickly to the meat department, hunting for the elusive gumboot sirloins. Imagine my surprise when I discovered row after row of the prized morsels. Even better was the price: At the bistro, we charge $50 for approximately 100g of gumboot. Here at the poopquick, they were charing $2 for as much as you could fit in your trolley! Bargain!

I loaded up my trolley with the gumboot and headed over to the checkouts. The checkout operator at the last remaining terminal was the 9,000 pound man! He was already wearing rubber gloves! I gulped as I approached.

“Hello sir!” he said warmly.

“Hi tubs” I said, worried my anus was about to be probed.

The fat man proceeded to scan the gumboot sirloins as I passed them along his conveyor belt. He helpfully seperated the cold products from the warm, and bagged them up for me.

“That comes to a total of $3.20″ he said. I paid him with my company credit card – a chocolate bar wrapper Pooba left in the bin. He handed me a receipt.

“We hope to see you again soon, sir” he said, still smiling.

I suddenly realised there was something wrong about the 9,000 pound man. He sounded a bit artificial. I took out my .375 magnum and shot him 5 times in the head. Pieces of flesh flew off, but he didn’t seem fazed. Underneath his face were metallic objects and computer chips. He was a robot!

I ran as fast as I could with the robot in hot pursuit.

“You killed my lover!” he cried.

“You mean that big gay guy?” I yelled back.

“He was my inventor” cried the robot, big robot tears streaming down his face.

“Oh sorry bro” I said, running even faster and pushing my gumboot filled trolley.

As we approached the bistro, I called Pooba on his cell.

“Pooba, I want you to get the electromagnet from underneath the bar and charge it up” I yelled.

“Ok boss….. Done!” replied Pooba.

“Ok, power up the magnet” I said.

Behind me I heard the 9,000 man approach, with his finger positioned to insert itself deep into the hole where poopy comes out. All of a sudden, I heard a whirring noise. I turned around, watching the 9,000 man lift up into the air.

“NOOOOOooooOOO!” he cried, as the beam of magnetic energy caused his circuits to fry and his robotic penis to shrivel up.

“Haha” I said, turning to push my trolley into the bistro. The trolley was gone!

I then realised the electromagnetic beam had teleported the trolley to a parralel dimension.

“Aww shit” I said, but then I realised all was not lost…

***30 minutes later***

“Ah, this was the finest gumboot ever!” said the blind man seated at table 4.

“Ah yes, thank you sir, we changed the recipe somewhat today” I beamed proudly.

“Tastes somewhat like…. metal” pondered the gay blind dude.

“It’s robot, actually” I replied.

“Robust? Yes, rather” he said, returning to his meal.

Blind people… I have no problem with them. But deaf people… They piss me off.

I grabbed my magnum.

Rough Cuts

‘Waiter, come here right this second!’ came the angry shout.

I glanced over at the far corner of the restaurant where I had just seated Bret Weston Elice the Second. Sighing, I turned to Kooper, the head waiter, and told him that I would be right back.

‘Is anything wrong, Mr. Elice?’ I asked politely.

‘Yes,’ he sputtered. ‘This steak is a piece of shit.’

I put my finger to my lips and hushed him. ‘Shh, the sous chef is in a foul mood today. You don’t want him to hear you now, do you?’

‘I don’t care if he hears me,’ Bret shouted. ‘I ordered gumboot sirloin and this is most definitely not gumboot! If I’m not mistaken, it’s poop!’

I peered closely at the charred brown lump in front of him. ‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘I think you may be right sir. I’ll conduct an investigation to see whether speed or alcohol was involved.’

The plate of sirloin in hand, I marched towards the kitchen. Inside, I called out to the sous chef, who was slumped over a counter stroking a weiner. ‘Chef, I’ve had a complaint about your gumboot sirloin. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.’

‘Vas te faire foutre,’ he replied.

‘Fuck you too. Now, Chef, were you drinking when you prepared this gumboot?’ I asked carefully.

‘Non.’

‘Did you use excessive speed?’

‘Non.’

‘Well then, I declare this investigation to be over,’ I announced cheerfully. ‘I rule out speed and alcohol as contributing factors to this botched gumboot.’

Chef stood up, his face as red as his inflamed testicles. ‘Eh, who said my gumboot was a botch job?’

I pointed out into the restaurant at Bret, who was stirring his straw through his glass of mineral turpentine and staring wistfully out the window.

With an angry roar, he charged through the swinging kitchen doors and made a beeline for Bret. Bret’s mouth dropped open when he saw Chef storming towards him. My god, he thought. His face is as red as my inflamed testicles.

Chef stopped abruptly before Bret and waved his weiner in the air. ‘You don’t like gumboot? My gumboot not good for you?’ he raged. ‘You eat my weiner, here!’

Without another word, Chef grabbed Bret’s head and stuffed his weiner into Bret’s mouth. Bret’s eyes watered at the meaty taste, and his throat constricted as he choked for breath. Chef released Bret’s head and then whisked his meat cleaver from the sleeve in his apron. ‘No gumboot for you,’ he said sternly, and brought the cleaver down onto Bret’s right knee.

Blood gushed everywhere. Bret tried to scream but the sounds were muffled by the weiner, still wedged in his teeth. Chef yanked Bret’s leg, and had to chop at it a couple more times because the first blow hadn’t gone straight through. When the leg was finally free from its adjoining body, Chef hurled the leg onto the table. Amazingly, the leg was sporting a pink, calf-length gumboot.

Chef pulled the gumboot off the leg in one swift motion. ‘No gumboot for you,’ Chef repeated.

Famous novelist at the Bistro!

Today we had a celebrity (or so he claimed) pay a visit to our humble Bistro!

I was laying a couple of cockroach baits around the restaurant when I saw a pair of sharply polished shoes appear in front of my eyes. I looked further up to see a rather small bulge around the pubic region. Looking up further still revealed a rather gay looking character with a cheesy expression, clad in a warm looking coat.

‘Good day, sir. Would you like a table?’

The gentleman sneered at me.

‘I would like the best table in the house. Bring me the wine list immediately!’

I quickly showed the man to the worst table in the Bistro. It hasn’t been cleaned since 1984 and there are plates and bowls filled with congealing food scraps covered in maggots and small rodents. Also, there is the skeleton of a long deceased patron – a blind man, if I remember correctly – sitting in the corner. Mr fancy coat looked at the table in disgust but took a seat anyway.

I returned bearing a copy of our wine list. We only sell two wines at the bistro: mineral turpentine (06 vintage), and Pepsi max. The man ordered the max after some consultation with the wine list. He was starting to get at my nerves; everybody knows that Pepsi is a cola, and not a wine.

I brought a wine glass filled with Pepsi to the table (and a large globule of poop kindly provided by our sous chef). Mr fag took a long drink and sighed with pleasure. I was disgusted, but politely took his order for lunch. He ordered the house special – gumboot sirloin – and a chef’s salad. I couldn’t help but smile – the chef’s salad is simply a piece of green paper with salad dressing made out of my urine.

I returned with the man’s order in a cardboard box. He attacked the gumboot with joy, not knowing it was actually made from a fried turd I had just scooped out of the sewage pipe in the alley opposite the bistro. He then ate a generous amount of the salad before turning green and throwing up all over the table. He wiped some of the vomit off his face and made a dash for the male bathroom. I followed closely behind.

When I opened the bathroom door, I saw the customer enter a stall with Pedro, our sous chef! This greatly disturbed me. I entered the stall next door and peered over the roof. The customer was doing unspeakable things with a salami! Poor Pedro seemed scared. I left the pair to their own devices for a few minutes, before returning with a mop and bucket. I opened the stall door and dunked the customer’s head into the bucket until he drowned. Then I took a potato peeler and peeled off all his skin, giving this to Pedro for use in our soup of the day.

Finally, I took his wallet out of his pocket. The blood stained driver’s licence read ‘Brett Weston Elice’. The name sounded vaguely familiar. I dragged the corpse out into the alley where it was set upon by three blind men. Then I went home.

Fresh meat

Today we had a new waiter starting work at the bistro. His name was Klaus. Being so close to christmas and all, we all had a jolly time calling him Santa Klaus. He had to wear a floppy red hat and a red nose all day.

 At about 7pm, I seated a blind man at a table in the corner. He glanced briefly at the menu and ordered the specialty of the house, gumboot sirloin.

‘Very good sir, our finest dish. Would sir like to see the wine list?’

Sir declined my offer, so I went out the back to take the order to Karlos, our gay chef.

‘Karlos,’ I began. ‘We have an order for the gumboot sirloin, medium rare’.

Karlos looked at me sadly.

‘I’m sorry, but we just ran out of gumboot sirloin!’

In the 45 years I have worked at the bistro, we have never ever run out of gumboot sirloin. In fact, we’ve never had to order it in. 45 years ago the boss accidentally ordered too much beef, and we’ve been selling the half-century old meat ever since.

‘Blast!’ I cried, not wanting to ruin the blind customer’s night. I thought about this predicament for a while, and then came up with a rather innovative solution.

 I went over to the microphone connected to the Bistro’s P.A. system and said “Santa Klaus, please call to the meat freezer. Thank you, Santa Klaus to the meat freezer.’

Before heading over to the meat freezer, I made a quick stop at the local hardware store and picked up a couple of useful items. I then returned to the Bistro and entered the freezer.

Klaus was in the freezer already, and looked as though he had been there for some time. Icicles had begun to form on his beard, and his face looked blue. He seemed glad that I had arrived, but looked somewhat puzzled when he saw the chainsaw I was carrying in my hand.

A few minutes later I served the blind customer with our specialty dish, the gumboot sirloin, cooked medium rare. A little later I asked him how his meal was.

‘Tender’, he replied.

Well done.

Today I had a customer order a gumboot well done.

I kid you not. My fellow waiters out there reading this blog will no doubt shudder as they read those two words in combination with gumboot.

It was a disaster from the start of the meal. The customer arrived during our busy lunch period and requested to be seated in a reserved table…

 ’I'm sorry sir, but that table has been reserved. However, if sir would be so kind…’

‘Don’t give me that sir bullshit! Listen to me, I want that table and I want it now! I don’t care if the goddamned Sultan of Brunei has reserved that table, it’s mine now!’

The gentlemen leaped into a chair with a triumphant grin. Just then my restaurant mobile started to ring. I answered it.

‘Hello, waiter? This is the Maxwell from the Hyatt. I’m calling on behalf of the Sultan, he’s just left our hotel and will be at the restaurant shortly. Good day.’

I cursed and hurled the phone in a random direction. Sadly it ricocheted off a brass lantern and conked a blind man on the head. Having no time to attend to the blood spurting across his table, I rushed off to the manager’s office to see what I could do about the chap sitting at the Sultan’s table.

 After hearing my story, the manager peered out into the restaurant and spotted the irate customer who had stolen the reserved table.

‘Ah, that’s my gay lover, don’t worry about him, he can have that table. Put the Sultan at the table in the corner’

‘But there’s a blind man sitting there, with blood all over the table!’

‘He’s not likely to notice’

And so I ushered the Sultan across to the blood stained table and took the order of the bosses’ gay lover.

‘And what would sir like today?’

‘For the fifth time, stop calling me sir you pansy! And I’ll be having the gumboot sirloin please. Well done.’

And that pretty much sums up my day.