Soupers,The Competition is Getting Harder (Fanfare Music): "Vomiticus Gramaticus"
Blog Posted:4/26/2013 6:58:00 AM
The maitre d' called me a connard,
Discusses Anger Management Techniques
By Chris D. Aechtner
so I strangled him within an inch of his life,
flinging away concerned patrons
as if they were cheap, plastic dolls made in China -
I felt like Samson without a single pair of scissors in sight.
Redrum was lighting my temples a-fire.
It was suggested that I attend an anger management course.
The counselor asked if I wanted to hit her,
b!tch-slap her around a bit.
I kindly explained how my dear Momma had taught me
to never, ever, hit a woman.
The counselor said this was a chauvinistic approach.
After asking her if feminism had leveled the playing field
to the point were it was now alright for me to hit women,
she retorted how I should not begin doing such things.
"Sounds like a chauvinistic approach," I replied.
The woman was one of those not-so-great-counselors
who over-analyzes life and tries to fit everyone
into neat, crisp packages and categories,
even though we are all as uniquely individual as fingerprints.
But something very positive came out of our visit together,
for she recommended that I attend an Ashram as part of my therapy.
This Ashram was filled with men wearing pajamas, robes and dresses,
who sang and danced in a highly suspicious, dainty manner.
This charming little south-Indian man approached me.
He had dark, shining eyes, irises rimmed in yellow.
He gave me a long hug - it felt really good!
Then he examined my eyes, taking notes.
He examined my hands and teeth -
even smelled my breath and armpits.
By this point I became a bit wary,
wondering if this was a weird mating ritual.
Do you know wot he said!?(of course you don't!
Wot do you take me for? An idiot!?).
He said I was a manimal.
Yes! A manimal!
According to him, if I stopped eating flesh,
this would prove to be the ultimate cure
for my unbridled anger and rage.
After following this advice for several months,
I became extremely calm,
even played a ukulele to old John Lennon records.
Dogs stopped trying to hump me,
birds landed on my shoulders,
singing along with the tunes.
Life finally felt very peaceful.
Knew I was cured when re-visiting the same restaurant
with the unruly maitre d'(of course, the restraining order was
lifted by now and the maitre d' had acquired a firearms permit).
He boastfully called me a connard again,
possibly bolstered because he was packing some serious heat.
Not a single shred of anger coursed through my body!
It was wonderful!
With a sincere, wide smile,
I turned towards the maitre d' and politely replied:
"Sure, why not! Once a connard, always a connard!"
*Connard is slang for: motherducker (Author's note)