cream pie with fish heads: pure gluttony

Pie.

If I want to excite up the Fry Cook, all I have to do is look at him straight on, and say "Pie." He laughs, every time, his head bending down, the stiffie erupting from him. This makes me laugh, and so, within a moment, we are both laughing and I am on my knees.


You see, we are crazy people. Who gets hard at one word?


(The same thing happens with my dear friend Sharon and the word pants. Clearly, this is a trend with some serious double entendres).

Of course, there are stories behind it. Mostly, it is a story I wrote in my shamelessly self-validating book, the epic adventure of taking a still-steaming-hot cherry pie onto a New York City bus. If that's not a double entendre, I don't know what is.

I've always loved telling this story. People roll their eyes and sigh. But no one feigns interest as hard as the Fry Cook. Whenever we are in a place where someone mentions pies — particularly in my self-validating crappy classes where I teach people to be as inane as I am all the while giving them false hope that I am somehow thoughtful and awesome — he nudges my side and starts to giggle. "Tell the story...they will think you are awesome," he whispers. And so I ask for validation once again from people who don't give a shit about me. I mean, they're in the class because they think they are creative or smart or some shit.