The waiter left her spinach but took her fork, then her husband stole her knife and screamed at the shitty waiter that the knife was dirty. "Honey, that's my knife. You have your own knife." But Frank didn't listen to his wife. He grabbed the waiter's arm and turned him around. "See?" Frank said. "This dirty knife is obviously mine, it has butter on it and, I have all ready buttered my roll and you haven't." Frank yanked the knife out of the waiter's back and waved it at his wife sarcastically and grinned like a hyena. The waiter's knees gave out as he crumpled to the floor, a puddle of blood growing rapidly around him. "See! Butter!" Frank said. "Told you it was my knif e." Frank was beaming, feeling vindicated. He looked at his tablemates and his smile disappeared. "You just killed our waiter. Damn it Frank. Now our orders will take forever." To our surprise, the waiter's corpse was efficiently disposed of & a new one assigned us right away. The manager came over & promised not to rat out Frank- if we dined there every 7th Tuesday. We responded it would be difficult to keep track of that. As we negotiated, our second waiter dropped dead too. "Well this is just ridulous," I said throwing my Plate on the floor, shattering it into 3,836,014 shards. The tables all started to rumble, so I was forgiven. All told, there were 47,757,055 shards to clean up. We left and went to the shops to purchase a vacuum cleaner, but they were all sold out. Our party debated heatedly for several moments on what we could do now, but it was Lord Fork who finallly decided Uncle Horace’s hairy back did not need vacuuming…it just needed a shave. Next we debated whether a razor would do the trick, or whether we should shop for a lawn mower.



1 Woab's photo

Clearly, a butter knife would have been in order.

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