Delicious fajitas

As I don't really have an outlet for my sketches, I thought I'd try converting one to a written piece. It turned out longer and less sketchy than planned. Now I have a thing that isn't really a sketch and also isn't a very good story.

Er, enjoy.

* * * * *
There's bugger all on TV this evening and Fenella has made plans – with herself – to go out for Mexican. It's easier than cooking at home and she might even be able to get very drunk while wearing an amusing hat.

It's not even a proper Mexican restaurant. It's 'modern Australian fusion', which as far as anyone can tell just means it also offers the kinds of dishes that are served with 'heirloom asparagus spears' and 'chat potatoes' and 'cutlery', with a side of 'jus' and 'ma'am, could you please put some pants on'.

The restaurant's grimy sign hangs apologetically over the door, suspended like a lingering fart: 'something-something-Sol', in large red and yellow letters. After three years she still doesn't know the name of the place. She pushes the door open without bothering to find out.

'Hi', says a young waitress brightly, 'welcome to [WHITE NOISE]; table for one?'

Good God. It's like my brain just blanks the name out.

'Yes, please.'

'Just this way.'

Fenella is given a seat next to the window and opposite a glaringly empty chair that practically screams 'insert human companionship here'. Excellent. Fenella has just become a living public service warning to passers-by.

A young waiter with a rag tucked into his black half-apron appears out of nowhere. He's a hipster, all beard and big glasses and self-esteem (why don't they seem to hate themselves like normal people do?).

'Hi, there. Ready to order?'

Hell yes! I'd like something that burns my tongue off but is also absorbent enough to soak up the tequila when I try to dull my senses later.

'Yes, could I have the —'

'The chef’s special today is fa-JYE-tas.'

Vagitas?

'I’m sorry?' Fenella asks, not sure whether to be offended but finding herself looking for the opportunity.

The waiter repeats, 'We’ve got a special on fa-JYE-tas', and looks at her expectantly.

'Are you trying to be smart?'

'No, ma’am. I’m offering you cheap faJYEtas.'

'FaHEEta! It’s pronounced faheeta.'

'I don’t think it is.'

'It is.'

'There’s a J in it.'

'It’s Mexican!' Oh yes. Fenella is now not only That Customer with No Friends, but also, officially, That Dick.

The waiter is clearly not about to drop it. 'Yes, but in Australia it’s pronounced "J"', he tells her matter-of-factly, and then adds: 'When in Rome.'

'We’re in Sydney.'

'When in Sydney.'

'When in Sydney what?'

'When in Sydney you eat faJYEta.'

Nope. I'm not ordering anything on the Mexican menu. God only knows what the kitchen staff would put on my plate if he tells them I want a vagita for dinner.

She says instead, 'I’ll just have the spatchcock, thanks', and immediately regrets it. The waiter looks at her reprovingly.

'That’s a bit inappropriate.'

'A SALAD, THEN. Just get me a Caesar salad.' She remembers her manners grudgingly. 'Please.'

'No entrée, ma’am?' he asks, stylus hovering over the screen of his handheld electronic order-taking device thingy.

'Nope.'

'Not even a gourmett pumpkin soup shot?'

'No!' Fenella snaps.

'I’m sorry', the waiter says with buttery smoothness, 'I meant "gourmay". I just thought you might enjoy a little amuse-bouche.' The words dribble out sickeningly.

'It’s pronounced—' Fenella frowns for a second. 'OK, you’re saying it right, but now it just sounds dirty.'

Unruffled, the waiter nods and starts jotting. 'So, one [WHITE NOISE] Sol Creamy Caesar Salad.'

'Yes.'

The waiter says the word 'creamy' a bit too slowly as he writes it. Creeeeeeamy.

'And for drinks?' he asks as he finishes jotting. He looks back up at Fenella, politely expressionless. 'I've got a semi-on.'

'What?'

'What?'

'That’s disgusting!'

'Would you prefer a chardonnay?'

'Oh', Fenella says, embarrassed, 'you meant a semillon with an "l".'

'There’s no pleasing you, is there?'

'Well, if you’d pronounced it semiyong instead of "semi-on"—' Fenella stops herself. 'Yes, I will have the semi ... the white. Thanks.'

'Excellent choice. Also, just to let you know, our head chef will be giving a live demonstration of his world-renowned filletting skills at 9 pm in the open kitchen to your right. He can de-bone and fillett a mackerel in less than 15 seconds and will be signing copies of his book ‘My Filletting Life’ after the fillett show.'

Graaaarggghh! 'It’s pronounced fil-LAY! It's a fil-LAY show!'

'Fellatio?' asks the waiter, genuinely surprised. 'OK then. Our head chef will be performing his public fellatio at nine.'

Fenella's eye twitches. 'That’s it. I’m out.'

The waiter shrugs and heads back to the kitchen to tell the others what he's just heard the chef will be doing to a fish tonight.

Buffer zone

And yet my idea for chilled toilet seats never took off.

Voodoo child

In space, no-one can hear your maudlin philosophising

Licenced to quill

This morning as I ate my porrindge
I read that nothing rhymes with 'orange'.
I thought: What nonsense! Next some derp'll
tell me nothing rhymes with 'purple'.

THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Ant problems

Over the past weeks, it has become increasingly apparent that my household has an Ant Problem.

Those little guys are everywhere. If a crumb of a crumb so much as touches the ground, they’re on it. Last week I was pouring a coffee and when I tipped the kettle over the cup, dead ants came out. They must have crawled in for a bit of an ant jacuzzi but it ended in a way that was presumably reported in the local ant press as an ‘ant holidaymaker tragedy’.

I don’t know how many ants got into the kettle but I filled and emptied it over and over and each time there were still ants when I poured it out. Eventually I poured a cup that had just a single ant torso in it and I took that as a win.

We keep our place pretty clean and tidy, but we’re in a leafy area in the suburbs so ants and cockroaches are something we’re used to dealing with. Once my mum had a wall full of bees.

Still, even by those standards, things were getting out of control so we decided to get an exterminator in. He was a lovely old gentleman who happened to be in the business of MASS KILLINGS and he knew his trade. I am confident that the poison he used was effective because now whenever we see cockroaches, it’s only because they have come out into the open to die really melodramatically.

The ants, on the other hand, are a fucking tough bunch.

I don’t know how they’re doing it, but the poison has had NO effect on them at all. If anything it seems to be making them stronger. I saw an oat making its way across my loungeroom floor the other day thanks to the amazing force of poison-fuelled antpower.

I’m documenting this because I think they will get me very soon. While the ants and my family have had an uneasy co-sharing arrangement for the past few weeks, my small child tipped over my coffee this afternoon, and while I haven’t seen the ants today, I know they’re still there.

And now they’re caffeinated.