Jersey's Rant; Jersey Shorr Story # 11

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
More Jersey!

Submitted: July 08, 2013

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Submitted: July 08, 2013

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Jersey Shorr was just getting warmed up; now that that spineless blob Walt Siever had given into his demand that ‘opinion’ pieces be included in “Art From Around the Globe’ monthly magazine, he was off to the races.  Just what his opinion about, say, the furniture store down the way had to do with art, was a mystery to him.

 

Jersey was growing restless later that same day.  He glanced at his watch; 1.30, was that all?  No way could he work another three and a half hours in this shit-hole.  Screw Siever, and screw this place.  He stood up, and walked to his car.  He was done.  If Siever didn’t like it, tough s**t!  He wasn’t in the mood to listen to him bitch and whine, about how he expected a full day’s work from Jersey.  Piss on that. 

 

That evening, after Jersey had downed about 6 or 7 cold ones, he decided to walk over to a new restaurant across the street.  It was a steak and seafood place, called ‘Fin and Hoof’.  What a stupid dumb-ass name, thought Jersey, as he elbowed his way to the front of the line, knocking an 8 or 9 year old roughly aside. 

“Hey mister!”

He glanced at the kid, saw his limp-wristed father glaring at him, and burst out laughing.  “What, are you going to kick my ass?  And let me give your kid a bit of advice...”

“We don’t care to listen to any advice a rude bully has to say.”

“Well, too fricking bad, there Charlene, you aint go any choice; and watch who you’re calling a rude bully; kid, you’ll learn that if you’re timid and don’t stand up for yourself, a guy like me, who senses weakness, will bulldoze right over your ass.”

“Well, I must protest!” said the limp-wristed father.

“Oh, you must protest, huh?  With a weakling-dick like you for a dad, this poor kid has no shot.  Sorry kid.”

“Come on, Timmy, we’re leaving; I can’t believe some people!”

“Go on Timmy; your dad’s late for The Puss Father meeting.  I wish you luck; they help puss daddies feel better about themselves, almost like a man.”

As puss-dad and puss-son stomped angrily away, a waitress came up and asked how many in his party.  Jersey looked around him, and replied, “How many in my ‘party’?  If this is a party, it blows.  Just one.”

“If you’ll follow me?”

Jersey was drunk, she was good looking, so he replied, “I’d follow that ass wherever.”

She gave him a withering look, and silently led him to a table for one, located right next to the kitchen.  Jersey mumbled his dissatisfaction, but she just smiled and said,

“Enjoy your dinner, sir,” and walked away, shaking her head. 

 

After another 20 minutes, she returned with an absolutely mouth-watering platter heaped with delicious-looking food.  Then, she said,

“Here you are sir; enjoy,” and walked away, but Jersey didn’t notice; his eyes and attention were both on the wonderful-looking meal set before him.  He had even forgotten to order a beer, he was that hungry.  He did sneak a peek at her shapely posterior real quick; Jersey’s watering mouth couldn’t wait to try the succulent shrimp and the excellent-looking steak on the humongous platter/feast set before him.  A huge buttered baked potato was up first, though.  He carefully cut a huge bite, and devoured it, cramming his mouth completely full, and with melted butter dripping down his chin, proceeded to send it straight out the way it had come; it was rancid!  As his fellow diners looked on in disgust, Jersey made a face, and yelled,

“What is this s**t?  Oh, gross; it’s rotten!”

The manager of the restaurant quickly came over to his table.  “Are you unhappy with your food, sir?”

“Unhappy?  What makes you say that?  Why would I be unhappy with cooked dog s**t?”

“Sir, please, try to keep your voice down.”

“Oh, keep my voice down?  I’ll do better than that, I’ll leave and never come back.  And, I’ll tell all my readers in ‘Art From Around the Globe’ monthly magazine you serve rotten s**t here.”

 

His waitress, Valerie, couldn’t suppress her smile.  After that absolute pig of a customer had ordered, she had gone out to her car and grabbed the butter off the dash, where she’s purposely left it in the sweltering sun all day; she was going to get even with her boyfriend, and serve him toast with rancid butter on it, because she’d been upset with him for always demanding food, not sex, but after Mr. A*****e had come in and said the disgusting things he’d said, she’d thought,

What better food for a rutting pig? and plastered his baked potato with the rancid butter.  He was such a pig that he didn’t even notice a rancid smell coming up from his plate; just started shoveling.  Ha, ha!

 

When Jersey Shorr got into the office the next day, he already had the basic outline for his next ‘opinion’ piece ready to go.  All he needed to do was start typing on his computer.

“Friends, today I’d like to take this opportunity to warn you all, as a matter of friendship, NOT to go into, or even drive by ‘Fin and Hoof Restaurant.’  I made the mistake of going there a couple of days ago, it still turns my stomach when I think about it, and was served what is, without a doubt, the single worst dinner anyone has ever been served, in the history of fine dining.  I mean, imagine if you will, a baked potato smothered in putrid butter that must have been made in Great, Great Grandfather Hiram’s lumberjack socks.  I have no idea how the steak was, or the shrimp, because I was preoccupied by my stomach heaving and all system set to ‘launch’.  ‘Fin and Hoof’ is a new steak and seafood eatery in town, but trust me, the only thing new about them is the new clothes you’ll need to buy after ralphing on yours!”

 

Valerie opened the newspaper; there just had to be something in here.  She needed to find a new job, after getting canned by ‘Fin and Hoof Steak and Seafood House’, after the revue came out in ‘Art From Around the Globe Monthly Magazine’.  She had to admit it was a juvenile thing to do, putting that rancid butter on Mr. A******’s baked potato, but it had felt so good!

The End


© Copyright 2020 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

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