The Restaurant Critic

This is a mouth foamer, a cunting drooling farm. A trip down a lane of fucking velvet taste bud cars spitting out fumes of taste, polluting your lungs with the sheer pong of food.

Yes, we went this week to the fisherman farmer, a seafood restaurant tucked away like a secret turd inside a small bay village. Upon entering, we were so impressed by the oaky timbers and wagon wheels draped around corners like filthy spoked earrings that we immediately punched another customer in the face.

After dealing with policemen and witness statements we were shown to a seat. We were banging our heads on the table with such fucking excitement that we made head sized holes in the wood. After drinking in the stinking scent of great fish, we perused the menus and chose starters befitting our massive open jaws. Two prawn fritters were set up for the sacrifice, and we called over the waitress, a young lady in a shark mask. She took our order politely and quickly, considering we were both chopping at her legs with tiny knives. Well, you have to review everything and at it’s utmost limit. She kept her composure even as the tears fell from her shark’s face, and after a reasonably short wait, we were munching piscine like two violent cunts.

The prawns were dainty and crisp, like a gang of burning ballet dancers. They went down like a candy floss sewage and our insides were peppered with the desire to knock one out all over each other in a kind of pornographic agreement on how fucking great the food was, and that we were being essentially paid to sample it whilst pleasuring ourselves.

For our main we chose haddock cooked in a lobster’s shell. We were both given axes, the haddocks were brought out, practially laughing with the sheer pleasure of being broiled in a beautiful sauce. The fish had to be eaten. The review had to be completed. We hacked away at the shells like two prisoners breaking up stone. We ate the shitting flesh inside like it was the blood of our own, and sat back savouring the taste of a million unswept ship floors. True fish, cooked by a fat necked man with gills, with eyes that never blink. A fucking riot of sea flavours, we sat back pretending to pat our stomachs, when really, we were still wanking off at how great it was.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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