Obituaries: Work

[Sepia]

We follow the tits as we shuck the oysters and scallops, talk shit while we're scratching our hair and the boss comes in and he doesn't know what's going on but he's in our face and want three of our french fucking plateaus with kamchatka, mussels, scallops, oysters, crab, salmon and halibut. Wakame decorating the thing like some foul seaweed creeping up the harbour in innsmouth until you taste it and that  might distract you from the two beady eyes of ponzo and vinegar and as this happens I get a sensation of deja vu, a dream and a memory superimposed and lived at the same time, felt and thought in the exact same moment and hitler's in my dream where I stand in line, picking up the perfect chicken from the sous vide, feeling dirty before slabbing it onto some romano, drowning it in dressing, the chef standing there smiling saying

There! That's the way to do it. Think of a Caesar soup, you probably haven't made a vichyssoise but a good Caesar is like that ok, it's like the gazpacho but it's white and it's french so yeah, let the romano swim, know what I mean? The romano is like a fucking skinny bitch and you wanna make her swim before she starts sucking your goddamned hard cock fuck I'm hard now, you're not gay are you?

It's like you realize you're alone all life or if you realize you have someone you know will be there for the rest of your life and then suddenly you realize you're the wrong shape, the wrong colour, the wrong concept and idea but there's this feeling that it isn't really you. It's them but you secondguess yourself all the time, burning the grilled mayonnaise the chef picked up on on this big here internet and as soon as he heard he added it to the menu

as a starter

and there was nothing else on the plate and it didn't matter how many complaints or how much people whined and we tweaked the recipe and amount every day but you took the shit and you yelled back, a tiger in your cage and after twenty three days it was off the menu, returning crusted in nuts as a bar room snack

Then you get out, meet normal people and you understand that it's reality that's crazy, not you and when the sun rises you're in some student kitchen doing the improvised vichysoisse and you don't know what you're doing anymore because you're amped up on amph and the acid gives you a connection with the ingredients, you talk with them and the weed just gives you a sense of paranoia and suddenly you realize you're still on the line and somewhere you can hear it

Men cocking their guns for a salute

[Jenne]

[Murmur]

Very nice!

[Sepia]

This was written when I was drunk from the whitewine we keep in the kitchen. Take one part of your shittiest white, add lots of ice cubes or crushed, depending on how busy you are that night and fill up with cranberry, orange or pineapple. Ice-tea if the place you work make your own or get something good which in europe is the arizona brand thing.

I was also curious to see if ech read it.

[Honey]

kill you?  mais non!  I wanna ...

Hey & there you go again – hitting me where it hurts – even when you're a tad on the tipsy side?  Wo ho & how do you do that?

It's 7:00am or thereabouts & I dunno know whether I'm hungry or horny?  (it's the dreaming too y'know?)  Just woke up & I'm usually – well & whatami usually?  fukkitt & I give up – la même chose

Appréciez votre repas!