Double O in P-oo-py

I was serving at our restaurant’s bar last night when a suave looking gentlemen dressed in a tuxedo approached me.

‘I’ll have a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred’ he requested.

I just about crapped my pants. Firstly, the guy had the nerve to dress up exactly like James Bond. And secondly, he had the balls to ask for his signature drink. I decided to punish him for his gay behaviour.

‘Certainly sir’ I replied. ‘I just need to grab a new jar of martini olives from the fridge’

I grabbed a martini glass and ducked into our kitchen.

‘Alright, Pedro, over here!’ I called. Pedro is an illegal immigrant from Mexico who weighs over 700 pounds. He’s also our sous chef. We pay him $3.50 an hour, plus all the leftovers he can eat.

‘Pedro, I need you to take this glass out the back and do a poop in it. If you do a nice big one I’ll get the chef to make you a couple of steaks.’

Pedro didn’t need to be asked twice. He grabbed the glass and waddled off to the toilet, which is actually no more than a bucket in our vegetable fridge. A few moments later he returned with the glass half full of a semi-liquid brown substance. Pedro is great for shitting on command; whenever we have a rude customer we serve them a ‘Mexican special’

I thanked Pedro and grabbed the glass, heading over to our spice rack. I selected a few choice herbs for the double O wannabe, throwing in some jalapeno peppers, chilli flakes and adding a generous dosage of vinegar. I decided that it would be an ironic touch to add a couple of laxatives, so I grabbed a couple and ground them up into a fine powder, adding them to the concoction in the glass.

Finally, I remembered the martini olive and popped it in the top. My masterpiece was complete!

I returned to the bar to find ‘Bond’ waiting impatiently, glancing at his no-doubt priceless rolex.

‘Here we are Mr Bond, your vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Would you like me to charge that to MI5?’

He glanced at me for a moment. ‘Do I look like I give a damn?’ he asked, before grabbing the glass and downing the poopy cocktail in one long swallow.

I shuddered at the sight of him drinking Pedro’s turd. Bond didn’t look too impressed either and dashed off in the general direction of the male toilets, pulling his Walther PPK out of his shoulder holster and shooting a blind man who was sitting at a table in the corner.

Nothing else of interest happened after that, although one customer reported a large pile of throw-up in the male bathroom.