Friday, October 29, 2010

Pardon My French: An Encounter With The Soup God

Late last night you were out for a walk with your faithful dog Sneaky Pierro when you ran into a guy who was so drunk he looked like he was riding a surfboard in an old Rock Hudson movie.

This was a guy, it turned out, who made a hundred fucking gallons of soup a day. And you have the nerve to ask if that's all he did? You got some fucking nerve.

All right?

Listen, shit burger, nobody makes soup like this guy. N-O-Body. There's people that drive all the way across town every single fucking day just for his tomato basil.

Don't ask him; so far as he's concerned there's nothing special about that one, but what does he know? It takes him like ten fucking minutes to put that one together. Easiest soup in the book, but the fucker's so popular he has to have it on the board every day or people have a shit fit.

He does six soups a day --five plus the tomato basil. He's the best soup guy in town, ask anybody: they'll tell you. He's the fucking soup god. He could stand right there on the sidewalk and name 100 soups, he's not shitting you. No fucking problem. You think he can't? You want to hear him name 100 fucking soups?

No, thank you. You believe the soup god. You do not want to hear him name 100 fucking soups.

If you gotta have a job, it turns out, making soup's a decent enough one. Did you ever have one of those chemistry sets when you were a little fucker? It's kind of like that. Oh, and hunting grouse? There's nothing else like it. Hunting grouse and catching bass, that's pretty much what the soup god would be doing if he wasn't making soup every fucking day.

He lives just around the corner, by the way. Just in case you didn't know that there was a soup god in the neighborhood.

People keep telling him he should open his own soup place like that guy on whatever the fuck that TV show is. But do you think he'd have any time for hunting grouse if he had his own place to run? No way, partner. The soup god will make his fucking soup, take his fucking check, and haul his ass out of there, thank you very much. If the place burns down in the middle of the night that's somebody else's fucking problem.

And then the soup god bid you good evening, curtsied to your dog, and said, "And a fine evening to you as well, my lady."

You felt foolish when you told the soup god that your dog was a "boy."

The soup god, of course, was having none of that. "No, no, no," he said, waving his hand like a drunken soup god aboard a wobbly parade float. "All dogs are ladies."

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