Pizza Chick: Good evening. This is Claudia speaking at Fat Al's All-Night Pizza and Kebab Slophouse. How may I help you today Mr. Birdbath?
bb: I really wish that you people didn't know my name...
Pizza Chick: Well, there's no need to fret sir. We're very discreet. Now what can I do for you this evening?
bb: Well, I dunno. I think I'm in the mood for something a little different...
Pizza Chick: Oh really? Well, perhaps I can interest you in our new special, which incidentally we've named after you - since you know, you pretty much keep us in business - 'Birdbath's Bollocks, Beaver and Bolivian Marching Powder Bonanza'?
bb: Uh huh. What's that all about then?
Pizza Chick: Well, basically, we take 12 inches of maggot-ridden crusty dough, slather it in the cheapest, most over-processed tomato-based sludge that we can buy from a dodgy Greek bloke who imports re-packaged waste from eastern-Romania...
bb: Ya ha.
Pizza Chick: ...sprinkle with spicy meat products of questionable origin, blast it in a small, nuclear furnace for ten minutes and finally sprinkle with two gramms of weaponised cocaine. Depending on his mood, the pastry chef might squirt some breast milk into it too.
bb: His mood?
Pizza Chick: Oh and there's the jalapenos on there too. We know you like your jalapenos...
bb: Hmmm. Sounds spicy. Me like.
Pizza Chick: Guaranteed to burn the oesophagus off you and give you a stiffy for six hours.
Pizza Chick: Oh yeah. You'll be wanking like a fiend until about four in the morning.
bb: Sounds great...
Pizza Chick: And would you like anything to drink?
bb: Uhm... got any Lilt?
Pizza Chick: No, sorry sir. But we do have a nice shipment of Vietnames Field-Mouse wine? Pretty much guaranteed to make even the strongest stomach gag.
bb: Side effects?
Pizza Chick: Uncontrollable flatulence, but we'll throw in a few poppers and a bag of grass to take the edge off.
bb: Nice one. What ice-cream have you got?
Pizza Chick: Oh you'll like this sir - we have a new range of supremely erotic, orgasmically farmed, double-choc chipped...
bb: Organically farmed. You mean organically farmed?
Pizza Chick: No, orgasmically farmed sir. The Russian teenagers who churned the milk we're high on a potentially lethal cocktail of 'e', ketamine and rat posion at the time. This has been known to cause unamanageable horniness so the girls were routinely ravished with aubergines as they worked. It was the only way to stop them chewing their own faces off.
bb: Cracking. How much for the lot?
Pizza Chick: That'll be Â£145 please. Cash or card?
Pizza Chick: Very good sir. If you can deposit it in the usual recepticle? That'll take fourty minutes to arrive and will be launched through your front window by a surly Croatian from the back of a passing moped.
bb: Marvellous. See ya.
Pizza Chick: Bye bye now, bye byeeeeeeeeee...
Photo by Andrea Flannery (thanks!)
Clapton vs. Depeche Mode. Mash-up by Aggro1
+From The Scrounge With Love (lolspk by Tick Tock)+