The waitress came and served us an order, not ours, maybe no ones. Looking into her eyes, I noticed her pupils danced mischievously about, much the way Punch slamdanced with Judy during the endless puppet shows of my youth. She undressed, laid atop our table, and called out to three chefs, each of different nationality, height, and culinary expertise.

Me and my dinner companions sat there stunned. One rubbed his belly in shock. The other patted his head in delight. Still the scene unfolded before us like a treasure map mixed in with the laundry.

“Rudolph, cover me with season salt,” she shouted. He appeared from the kitchen doors, did as he was told, then melted away before my eyes, like a toy soldier in a microwave oven, leaving only a sombrero seated in Rudolph’s soupy remains.

The waitress pitched and arched her body and limbs randomly. Season salt spilled off her, causing a cascade off her to the table, and from the table to the floor. I felt a small amount accumulate into the edges of my shoes.

“Now Alex,” she summoned, while crossing her eyes for no apparent reason, “cover me in angel hair pasta.” “Yes, my lady,” he answered, as he dumped a bucket of deer entrails upon her. For you see, Alex was quite insane. And hard of hearing. But mostly insane.

“Postman Jim, top it all off with a cherry scented letter sent between two long distance lovers.”

“Yeah, whatever,” slurred Joe, who was neither named Jim, nor a postman, and was really just there to see the naked chick who spread herself across someone’s table.

He threw a wadded up paper menu on top on the heap.

Then he threw up right on top of it.

For you see, Joe was quite intoxicated, and the waitress was really nothing more than a seafood platter sitting upon our table.

Joe, as I think back on the incident in question, turned out to be no one else but myself. The table little more than a park bench.

Needless to say, I won’t be dining there again any time soon.

The service was horrible.