Peeny’s big mistake

As you will recall from the last post I recently hired a new apprentice at the Bistro named Big Peeny.

Well, I have some sad news… Peeny was killed in a horrible execution yesterday. It’s a long story, so I will try to explain it to you.

It was another late night at the bistro, and, as usual, every customer had ordered the gumboot sirloin. I had Big Peeny running to the fridge and grabbing the sirloins and I was roasting them up in the big gumboot pressure cooker. Finally, Peeny came up to me looking like he’d just stepped in a piece of poopy and eaten it accidentally.

“Err boss… we’ve run out of gumboots”

I looked at Peeny for a moment.

“Run out? But that’s impossible! We only have one more to go!!!”

We both pondered what we could do. I spotted a packet of jelly crystals nearby and had a great idea.

“Ok then Peeny, here’s a plan”

I explained the plan the Peeny, and he headed off to the bathroom. Meanwhile, I started to prepare the jelly. It was a strawberry jelly, one of my favourite flavours.

Peeny returned carrying some fresh faeces in his hands. He plopped them into the jelly mixture. Then I added some kidney beans and corn kernels from a can. Peeny added some chopped spinach. I added some sour cream. Peeny added a frozen turkey.

I stirred this mixture together and poured it into the pressure cooker. In a few moments, the fake gumboot was ready.

“Ok Peeny, take this to table 65″

Peeny grabbed the plate with one hand. With his other he held a spotted kerchief to his nose to avoid the foul foul odour of rotting turd.

Sadly for Peeny, he tripped over on a banana peel and landed head first into the awful fake gumboot liquid. The bowl attached itself to his head perfectly. I heard a desperate sucking noise and Peeny tried in vain to pry the poopy filled plate from his face!

“I’ll save you, Peeny!” I cried, grabbing my trusty .45 magnum. I shot the plate 4 times. It shattered and fell to the ground, along with globs of Peeny’s brain and cranial matter.

I decided to head home.

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.

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.