Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Excuse me. ExCUSE ME! This roast, it’s shit, yeah? Look at this. You, with the breasts and the overpriced wedding band, come over here and jam this in your fucking gob.
Chew it. Chew! Taste that? Do you? What is it? It’s NOTHING, yeah? This is a bland, soggy, greasy roast! It’s bland, you donkey! BLAND! Where are the spices? Where’s the bloody SAVOR?! I feel like I’m eating fucking shoe leather roasted in fucking bat guano!
Look at this! See how it’s pink there, in the middle? It’s fucking RAW! You could make someone sick, Susan! It’s called a fucking ROAST, you need to fucking ROAST it, yeah?! Do you want to make me sick?
I think … yeah, yeah, I think I’m going to vomit. I’m going to vomit a veal parmesan with truffle garnishes and a saffron-prawn reduction sauce all over the tablecloth, yeah? The blue fucking tablecloth with the fucking DAISIES that I TOLD you only goes with chicken? Yeah? Look, fuck off back to the kitchen and redo everything.
Oh no. No. No, no, no, come ON! You’re not going to stand here and talk back, are you? Are you, you fat mouth piece of shit?! You’re WASTING TIME! Your son and your husband are fucking HUNGRY, and you’re standing here debating! It’s fucking BLAND, Susan!
I wouldn’t serve this to fucking HITLER! ADOLF HITLER doesn’t deserve this kind of shabby, vomitous, mucousy roast! Are you telling me I’m worse than Hitler, Susan? ARE YOU?
If you think I’m going to let this roast be served, you’re out of your fucking mind! I LOVE our son, Susan. I’m not going to let him die gagging on bits of cartilage and soggy carrots after his stomach rejects this car wreck of a dinner! So stop taking the piss and go FIX IT! You’ve only got four and a half minutes! GO GO GO!
So, James, how was school today? Oh, yeah? Yeah, that’s a laugh. You know, I had him when I was your age. It’s funny he’s still teaching, yeah. Does he still do that lecture about—hold on, here comes mum with dinner.
O.K., put it here, Susan. Alright, color is better. Sloppy presentation. First thing you look at is presentation, Susan. This is boring, it’s flat. Looks like you just whipped it up at home, yeah? O.K., let’s see here. Some flavor. There’s an odd taste, like … salt. A little too much salt and … despair, I think. Yeah, definitely utter despair.
Susan, don’t tell me you’ve been crying in the fucking food AGAIN?!
TAKE … IT BACK … AND DO IT … AGAIN!
No, never mind! Fuck it! No, service is over! Give me the roast! There, see? Now I’ve peed on it. No one’s eating the damned thing!
I hope you’re happy, Susan. You have failed in every way imaginable.
No, James, I don’t care, you’re not eating it! Look, if you’re hungry, blame your mother, yeah? Maybe if she could cook worth a goddamned COCK, you would have had a full meal this bloody MONTH!
Susan, you have failed to complete the service. I will be going to the carnival ALONE, and when I come back, I want to see this whole place STOCKED, FUMIGATED, and bloody SPOTLESS, yeah? James can help.
And I’ll tell you something, Susan: if sex tonight is this amateurish, don’t be surprised if you’re the next one eliminated from this family. I’ve done it to Gordon Jr., I can sure as hell do it to you.