I drive I get us there. I have hemorrhoids the size of a first baseman's mitt and deep vein thrombosis thick like grape jelly.
I drive to the monkey house at the zoo. I drive to the sushi bar down on East 52nd Street. Mainly I drive Rich wherever his "bidness" takes us. Some days it's fishy bidness, some days it's monkey bidness.
But by night, I am the Chef.
My meals will delight those within the family's loving embrace.
To those lucky enough to be inside the circle, a host of appetizers enchant the palate as precursor to fine dining on entrees exotic in content and appearance. Hot dogs, dranks, chips and salsa, ...oh yes, especially hot dogs and dranks, will sate the hardworking appetites of thugs like the Sweeper, Short-Shorts, Bait, IE (international element), and Da Boss (:r).
Feel like getting on the wrong side of us? Stepping on the toes of IE during international obfuscation?
Do you have any inclination towards getting in between Short-Shorts and his waxing appointment?
Have you ideas about fucking in any way shape or form with the Sweeper's magnificent machinations?
Do you really feel like forcing Bait to maintain any level of hap whatsoever?
If you do any of this you will find yourself sitting down to a meal of an entirely different flavor, my sad, sad friend.
Perhaps I will wine and dine you with the most delectable fried wontons spiced to perfection with a filling made of your last bowel movement; followed by a quaff of illicitly distilled spirits culled from the tears of your nephew as he's humiliated before a group of catholic shoolgirls.
Your gustatory orgasmic journey will likely continue with the dance of a paillard of your pet iguana across your taste buds. Smothered in pureed ex-roomate with a dash of grandma-ma's earwax, you'll thrill to the flavor trapped deep in your cousin's ninth grade jock strap.
Just when your irritation at my insistence upon keeping the ingredients a secret from you has reached its zenith, I will bind your drunken ass to your seat whilst filleting your spouse before you. Mmmm. Curried spousal carpacio. Tres bon!
My pantry is outfitted to process any manner of relative or pet you may have--thick or thin, furry or smooth.
The aprons in my larder hang on the pinky finger bones of those I've served in the past. Does your finger belong on my wall?
With a word from Da Boss you might find yourself sitting down to a table "groaning under the weight of your own excrement."
Watch out! Unless you are comfortable dining on your loved ones, do not mess with happyrobot. The Chef might invite you over to examine your taste.
But hey, if you're in town...call me. We'll grab a bite to eat.
