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- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2012 10:00 pm
Actually, at four thirty, Mort would probably be enjoying his Sanka at the end of his meal at the Old Country Buffet. "Hey, waiter!" he'd be yelling, "where the fuck's my Sanka?" And the waiter, who's wearing a neck-beard and skinny jeans, would say, "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have Sanka, but we do have decaf espresso." And Mort would scream back, "The fuck you mean you don't have Sanka, you blowjob hack? Espresso? What'd I look like over here, a fucking guinea? Get me some fucking Sanka over here, you cocksucker, and step lively, my son, or I've have your fucking guts for garters!" And, naturally, all the people in Mort's party would be grinning and nudging each other because, well, it's fucking Mort, and everyone knows that Mort does whatever the fuck he wants. Then Mort would calm down a bit, and drink some of his free-refill sugar-free RC cola, while the hipster doofus waiter retreats to the kitchen to figure out where the fuck he's supposed to find fucking Sanka, and wondering if Mort's too old to realize that decaf espresso that the hipster doofus waiter is thinking of serving him is actually fucking Sanka. So a conference would commence in the kitchen, with the wait staff, now thoroughly traumatized by Mort, will speak in low tones, whether somebody should run to the 7-11 down the block and buy a jar of motherfucking Sanka, or they should try the old switcheroo and serve Mort some decaf espresso, or somebody should just cut their losses and dial 9-fucking-11 and let the local coppers handle things. Meanwhile, Mort's doing a slow burn in the dining room, while the rest of his party is wondering if things are going to go south, like they so often do when Mort gets his balls in an uproar over not getting fucking Sanka at the end of his meal. They all recall the time in New York, when at Le Bernardin, a French waiter superciliously served Mort some French press coffee instead of fucking Sanka, with curl on his lip and a cluck on his tongue. Mort got up and delivered such a Joe-Pesci-type beating that the frog would never walk a straight line again, let alone serve a decent coq au vin. By this time neck-beard hipster throws down his apron, tells everyone to go fuck themselves, and quits his job, storming home to finish the great screenplay that he's going to deliver to CAA in LA next month with an option for Bruce Willis. Alas, by now Mort's drumming his fingers on the table, and he really, really wants his motherfucking Sanka, and things are looking very bad indeed; within a few minutes Mort's going to storm out to his Eldorado, pop the trunk on that fat bitch, and pull out a well-used Glock 19, snap back the slide, and chamber a round in the fucking breech, because, you know, it's fucking Mort, and he want's his motherfucking Sanka, goddamn it. Luckily, one of the waitstaff recalls seeing an old jar of fucking Sanka in the breakroom, left there by an ancient goddamned dishwasher who left some years ago to aid the police with their enquiries, and might be helping them still, since nobody saw him after that. So the jar of fucking Sanka is found, and the freeze-dried crystals are dumped into a mug of boiling water, and served to Mort, who sips, sighs, and settles the fuck down.
And that's the end for another wonderful meal.