The Mystery of the Hair and the Blue Steak
‘Oh, waiter!’
cried out the floppy hacky sack of a gentlemen sitting on table 15. ‘I have
found a hair, right here, on my steak!’
His fluorescent red
coiffure wobbled awkwardly atop the bulb of his head, as his lips—plumply immobile, pursed in a permanent o—struggled
to wrap themselves around the r’s of his observation.
Venturing over, I
noted the ruby hue to the sprig of follicle he furiously gestured at.
A clue!
‘I don’t share’: The Psychology of the
Elderly Diner
…
with the elderly diner, one will often find that the merest noise elevating
above the whispered rustling of two mice engaged in acrobatic coitus will
distract them from their conversation and hence ruin their dining experience.
Although this clearly has its roots in their physiological defects—that is,
the deafness of aging—it is also an active attempt by the elderly diner to
dictate the terms of their dining experience: take some form of control in their
life that they lost with their descent into incontinence.
The Fruits of Passion
Margaret
came storming in through the door straight into the arms of her neighbour, Horatio.
He was the husband of her best friend, father of her second child, a part-time
pirate lord, and, above all, her muscular lover.
‘Why
Margaret,’ he exclaimed in his clipped Nordic accent, ‘whatever is the matter?’
‘Horatio,
it is just terrible, so so terrible. I can barely utter the terribleness of it.’
He
held her with tattooed arms, smelling of sea spray and buccaneer adventure. ‘It
is ok. I am here.’
‘Marlborough
has run out of sauvignon blanc. We’re hurtling headfirst into a drought Horatio!’
Free Your Inner Gluten
Once
we broke bread to celebrate hospitality and community. Today, that very bread
tries to break us. But we shall fight back! We shall persevere! For bread
cannot break us! Know your dietaries and be the Individual you know you are!
3am Children – A Series of Haiku
service has ended
they consume the alcohol
morning waits for them
but where now to go?
the night closes around us
Revolver calling
wine but no glasses
gin minus sacred tonic
get a few more straws
The Lost Sunday’s
‘We’re all frittatas in the end, made of nothing
more than rejected embryos and the disappointing leftovers of a slow week.’
The Existentialist’s Menu
How
could he possibly choose something from this menu, when whatever choice he was
to make would inevitably set him free-wheeling down the dusty, unsure road of a
whole new fate? The direction of his existence, of the man he wanted to be, depended
wholly upon this choice.
Right here. Right
now.
The waiter
approach warily again. ‘Ready to order, sir?’
The man felt sweat
drip like Chinese water torture down his brow. He tucked his hands into his
armpits, attempting to make himself small before the eyes of fatalism, and
tried not to think of himself caught in the tornado of this uncontrollable destiny,
loose limbed and tumbling head first into a future he could not comprehend,
that terrified him.
Chicken or fish?
‘No. A few more
minutes, please.’
Did You Just Touch My Balls: An Epic Poem
in Three Parts
Grazing gently, gliding by
the graceless flick,
a tickle, meticulous machinations,
or not.
Only a moment’s tumult
unfolds in a universal
no time, on, then
not.
