PickledCherub

I woke up with a really terrible apocalyptic nightmare in my head. Some mystical lady I happened to be having lunch with convinced me that the workd was going to end, and that I needed to buy a house on a hill, and so I sought comfort in a Catholic church, from a lady bishop, who thought (just by looking at me) that I'd been raped. "No," I said, "it's more like an emotional psychological rape." In the background, accompanying some young boy/father rite of passage ceremony, was Matthew and a band playing one of the Natural Bridges songs ("Birdsong").

Work was busy again. A lady (for whom, by this time, I had already developed a distinct dislike) asked me what one dessert was (and it was the only one that wasn't labeled). Mind you, I had been running around for six hours, and the restaurant was full, with people wandering about, waiting for dishes to be cleared off their tables, waiting for their checks, waiting for water, and she was not top priority (she and her husband had been milling for about ten minutes by then, but with no direction). I said, "It's the Pink Flamingo." She looked at me with these hateful eyes and said, "In English, please." "Pink Flamingo is English," I snapped back. "I know. What's in it?" I rattled off the ingredients. She ordered a small decaf coffee and a cherry to go for her husband. I retreated into the back, and waited until they left. They kept milling for about another five minutes. I knew that if I'd stayed up there she would've asked me for Splenda and steamed soy milk or something to go in her coffee.

"Pink Flamingo is English." That's a classic.