Muttering, cursing, shouting under her breath, the waitress storms off into the kitchen. Slamming a greasy docket onto the clipboard and yelling "CUNTS, just fucking CUNTS, why can't you be normal humans and not dither at 7.30 in the morning about whether you want your fucking poached egg done medium or medium-well? Who the hell orders an egg medium-well, anyway? God damn fucking cuntish fucking eggs".
On the floor, front of house, the same surly matron is dispensing extortionate shot glasses of "freshly squeezed" (from a factory in Ballymun) orange juice onto the shining tables with what she hoped was a professional veneer. As her back turns to retrieve more slops from the bucket of life, the poor people sitting on table nineteen shudder and pray for the foreign girls next time they come back here, if they come back at all. That young one has one God damn fucking hell of an attitude, like.
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3 comments:
Don't know how you do it. I generally hate the public.
The public are assholes. FACT.
Unique blog! Like our THE TERRORLAND!
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