Where In the Goddamn Is My Hot Fudge?
What in the hell do you mean, “hot fudge costs extra”?
When I woke up this morning, I still lived in Bakersfield, California, United States of America, and not Pyongyang.
I was P.O.W. in Korea and I demand hot fudge on this sundae. Where in the goddamn is my hot fudge?
For eleven weeks, those slanty-eyed Reds kept me in a putrid hell-hole without food or water. They murdered my best friend in front of my eyes and burned my back with hot irons. They made me shit in my helmet and then wear it.
And you’re gonna stand here and tell me hot fudge costs 50 cents extra? I don’t think so.
What’s the confusion? Maybe what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense to you. Why, you were probably just a gleam in your unborn father’s eye while I was gutting those smelly slopes on Lamb Shank Hill like our nation’s freedom depended on it. Because it did.
In my day, hot fudge came with a sundae, along with nuts, cherries, and any other goddamn thing I wanted on it. A fucking V-8 engine if I wanted!
You try spending 30 days in a room barely bigger than this ice cream case and then tell me what it feels like when some pimple-faced shit whose balls haven’t even dropped dares to charge you a quarter for chopped nuts.
That’s what I thought, Johnny.
Go ahead, get your manager. That femme doesn't scare me. Don’t think I didn’t learn anything in the Marines, you cock juggling thundercunt. I’ll deal with him like I did those dirty Maoist assbiters.
And maybe this time I’ll get some goddamn hot fudge out of it.
When I woke up this morning, I still lived in Bakersfield, California, United States of America, and not Pyongyang.
I was P.O.W. in Korea and I demand hot fudge on this sundae. Where in the goddamn is my hot fudge?
For eleven weeks, those slanty-eyed Reds kept me in a putrid hell-hole without food or water. They murdered my best friend in front of my eyes and burned my back with hot irons. They made me shit in my helmet and then wear it.
And you’re gonna stand here and tell me hot fudge costs 50 cents extra? I don’t think so.
What’s the confusion? Maybe what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense to you. Why, you were probably just a gleam in your unborn father’s eye while I was gutting those smelly slopes on Lamb Shank Hill like our nation’s freedom depended on it. Because it did.
In my day, hot fudge came with a sundae, along with nuts, cherries, and any other goddamn thing I wanted on it. A fucking V-8 engine if I wanted!
You try spending 30 days in a room barely bigger than this ice cream case and then tell me what it feels like when some pimple-faced shit whose balls haven’t even dropped dares to charge you a quarter for chopped nuts.
That’s what I thought, Johnny.
Go ahead, get your manager. That femme doesn't scare me. Don’t think I didn’t learn anything in the Marines, you cock juggling thundercunt. I’ll deal with him like I did those dirty Maoist assbiters.
And maybe this time I’ll get some goddamn hot fudge out of it.
posted by Mark at 10:29 PM
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