RESTAURANT ESSAY, ENGLISH COMPOSITION
I have to question first of all why I have come to a restaurant all by myself. Was I drugged and taken here? Are there stones in my pockets? Why is it so dark in here? I can't exactly answer these questions by myself, nor is there anyone else here to answer them for me. That's a little odd, eating alone in a dimly lit, empty restaurant. And no waiter has come by to refill my iced tea. I like iced tea. And robots. Sometimes when I drink iced tea, I pretend I'm refueling myself with precious boron, which is the liquid element that robots run on. I bring the electro-matic red and white stripey piston-automated pump gadgetry to my titanium fuel bay and say,"meep meep, preparing for delicious iced tea injection." Then, if I have my white sunglasses with me, I put them on and tell people I'm Charlton Heston. Sometimes the people are vampires or only coat-racks disguised as humans, so I have to bludgeon them to death with this chunk of wood I meticulously removed from my neighbor's fence.
I see someone else stumble in the door and now I'm all attention. I have a habit of unwrapping my silverware and putting it on my seat. I like to sit on it because it turns me on. Not as a robot, but as a human. The only things that turn me on as a robot are spark plugs and camshafts (robot genitalia) and that's pretty much why I can't go back to Auto-Zone.
So this guy who looks like a really drunk David Letterman sits in the chair opposite me at my table. My first concern is that I'm currently using his silverware and secondly that I left my fence-piece protruding from some homeless guy on fifth n' main. I'm tired of fencing with people anyway. I'm going to start bricking or bottling with them soon. I managed to ask the man a question, which was hard, because I'd been chewing on my library card since 5.30 AM and I still was (in an attempt to develop sexy jowls).
"So Algernon, what's the soup d'jour, the hat of the hour?"
He looked at me as if he didn't understand what was going on. As if he didn't know I was even there till he came in MY restaurant and took over like a goddamned yankee, with their striped pants and their pet alligators. And sitting right across from me?! He could've picked any other table. Come in, see the guy chewing his library card, sitting on his silverware, honking at his iced tea, and brandishing an umbrella to block out negative words... I forgot about that, but I'll tell you later under the statue of Evander Hollifield in my back yard. He's looking and saying nothing, and now I felt was the perfect time to ask directions from Lunch-land to Punch-plaza.
I see someone else stumble in the door and now I'm all attention. I have a habit of unwrapping my silverware and putting it on my seat. I like to sit on it because it turns me on. Not as a robot, but as a human. The only things that turn me on as a robot are spark plugs and camshafts (robot genitalia) and that's pretty much why I can't go back to Auto-Zone.
So this guy who looks like a really drunk David Letterman sits in the chair opposite me at my table. My first concern is that I'm currently using his silverware and secondly that I left my fence-piece protruding from some homeless guy on fifth n' main. I'm tired of fencing with people anyway. I'm going to start bricking or bottling with them soon. I managed to ask the man a question, which was hard, because I'd been chewing on my library card since 5.30 AM and I still was (in an attempt to develop sexy jowls).
"So Algernon, what's the soup d'jour, the hat of the hour?"
He looked at me as if he didn't understand what was going on. As if he didn't know I was even there till he came in MY restaurant and took over like a goddamned yankee, with their striped pants and their pet alligators. And sitting right across from me?! He could've picked any other table. Come in, see the guy chewing his library card, sitting on his silverware, honking at his iced tea, and brandishing an umbrella to block out negative words... I forgot about that, but I'll tell you later under the statue of Evander Hollifield in my back yard. He's looking and saying nothing, and now I felt was the perfect time to ask directions from Lunch-land to Punch-plaza.