"An excellant meal, my friend. You are an accomplished chef."
"Why thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take care of the dishes."
"Good heavans! I simply won't hear of it! Let me take care of the dishes."
"Well, if you insist..."
"I do indeed."
Two minutes later, a distant crash from the kitchen, followed by another, and another. The host heads for the kitchen to investigate. He arrives just in time to see his guest throwing the last of the soiled plates out the window.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"What's the big deal? You're doing all right. You can afford new ones."
"Simon, listen. I've got to talk to you about the declining quality of your work. Look at these returns you just tried to file. You're missing deductions right and left! Check the math on line 45b. You made an error in simple addition. Since I know you have a calculator, there is absolutely no excuse for this.Finally, and perhaps most glaringly, you have neglected to sign and date the "Prepared By" line. Simon, this is absolutely unacceptable. I'm going to have to see a marked... MARKED... improvement in your work, or I'm afraid we will be forced to release you."
He rises to leave. At the door, he pauses and turns back. "You know, for a so-called "helper monkey" you're really not that helpful."
The Poet sat alone at a small table in the crowded bar. A waitress approached, majestically overflowing her leopard skin halter top. She caught the Poet's eye and approached. She spoke, not quite louder than the surrounding patrons.
"Garble garble like garble tuber?"
"Zounds!" thought the poet. "There's only one poem that mentions Tubers... She's quoting T.S. Eliot! The Waste Land! She recognizes me as a wordsmith! However did this flower learn to bloom betwixt the ever puddl'd bourbon on the bar and the condom machine?"
He looks her in the eye and speaks: "My God... I love Eliot."
"I'm sure he's a real stud, pal. That still doesn't answer my question. Would you like a test tube shooter?"
"But of course."
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