gonna tell you a story; some kind of a breakfast conspiracy breakfast in bed, sir? breakfast in bed, sir? ah, no thanks, not today in fact, I'd far rather be sitting in a distinctly upright position so that I may at least have the ghost of a chance to digest what I don't mind telling you- is completely inedible slop lovingly and habitually prepared and served by the thugs and vagabonds who are the so-called staff of this institution finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? yes, yes, I shall enjoy soft cakes, toast, tea, scrambled eggs, strawberry jam... mind you, I can't complain, before I came here I thought scrambled eggs were supposed to be brown and crispy at the bottom and dull yellow at the top my mother, god bless her, cannot boil a fuckin kettle without burnin the water inside When I came here it's a different story, you know, oh yes, a whole different deck of cards... scrambled eggs arrive with the consistency of a moth swimming about in a foul yellow liquid- I wonder where that came from? I would like to put forth my theory, my own inside story, if you will, you wanted to know what I think? I think that every morning as we sleep our beloved kitchen staff gathers around the scrambled eggs like some pagan cult offering homage to a false icon first, the head chef, the cult leader, ritualistically stands on an institutional chair, opens the fly of his institutional trousers, pulls out his institutional willy, and urinates in our breakfast. HA HA HA! they're just a bunch of loonies, what do they care? half the bloody time they end up throwing it on the floor, or worse still, at each other...
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Copy to Clipboard: gonna tell you a story; some kind of a breakfast conspiracy breakfast in bed, sir? breakfast in bed, sir? ah, no thanks, not today in fact, I'd far rather be sitting in a distinctly upright position so that I may at least have the ghost of a chance to digest what I don't mind telling you- is completely inedible slop lovingly and habitually prepared and served by the thugs and vagabonds who are the so-called staff of this institution finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? finished with the menu, sir? yes, yes, I shall enjoy soft cakes, toast, tea, scrambled eggs, strawberry jam... mind you, I can't complain, before I came here I thought scrambled eggs were supposed to be brown and crispy at the bottom and dull yellow at the top my mother, god bless her, cannot boil a fuckin kettle without burnin the water inside When I came here it's a different story, you know, oh yes, a whole different deck of cards... scrambled eggs arrive with the consistency of a moth swimming about in a foul yellow liquid- I wonder where that came from? I would like to put forth my theory, my own inside story, if you will, you wanted to know what I think? I think that every morning as we sleep our beloved kitchen staff gathers around the scrambled eggs like some pagan cult offering homage to a false icon first, the head chef, the cult leader, ritualistically stands on an institutional chair, opens the fly of his institutional trousers, pulls out his institutional willy, and urinates in our breakfast. HA HA HA! they're just a bunch of loonies, what do they care? half the bloody time they end up throwing it on the floor, or worse still, at each other...
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