Abattoir

Abattoir

by Cam M. Roberts

 

(for Gordon Ramsay)

 

Bit strange me thinks, for I see nearly half an hour’s passed since dinner service commenced,
and we’ve like saints waited for your stubborn herb-crusted rack of lamb.  So… have you wasted
our time and negated our efforts (once again)?  Are you slow on the uptake by your own volition,
or are you glacial by nature?  Dead air determines our answers.  I await your retort, it’s not
a dissertation. Your attention please, hello, answer much?  Bollocks, I implore you, dead weight,
cinder blocks, bobble-head dumber than a bucket of rocks, quit sandbagging me laddy, he listens
not.  Yonder bowed up plank of wood — plump knot filibustering the saw-tooth blade —
wary despondent lumberjack, go fetch my axe. [The Lambs called, they want the Silence back.]
Unfathomable discordant encumbrance. Go to then, move it — already I’ve a splitting headache
from the general idiocy of the mundane, so don’t couple it with your being an unnecessary pain
in my arse.  Thus, I beseech you: Swiftly, swiftly — Yes?  This should be interpreted as:
Better make haste!”  Good lord, where’s a goddamn sheepdog when you need one?  
We go through this every single week, excruciating tedium, now I’m having to spoon feed you
Gerber as if you’re an imbecilic infant who’s refused his puréed fava beans.  Just make some progress,
since this is imperative to the idea of apprenticeship, thus be it deemed essential to your pensum.
I swears, it’s as if you’re some highly meticulous, overly cautious three-toed Sloth —
you’re neither old nor obese, but you are painstakingly slow nonetheless: If I told you to “haul ass”
you’d take two maybe three round-trips using the longest route possible whilst making frequent
pit-stops to devoid your bladder and bowels, and lest not forget those gratuitous cigarette breaks.
Extraordinarily worthless lollygagger!

 

O’ blast it to bloody hell and back — Hey, Donkey!  Yes, you, the only one in the stable.  Come hither,
daft prat with withers!  Not only is the Ba-Ba-Black Sheep still as stone-cold as a wetted slab of slate
in shadows at daybreak, but alas remains a visceral bloodbath spreadeagled perpetuum immobile
upon the algid iron of your purgatorial skillet, undoubtedly raw flanks of vapid carcass not-prepared
but poked, prodded, and played with more than a pornographic film star’s twat.  As if your burner
were actually on — Pathetic!  Terrible slobbering toddler behavior! Give me the spatula, hand it over,
you might hurt yourself or someone else or do something as equally dreadful.  Pah!  Ridiculous!
Rife in a profusion of inadequacies.  I am flabbergasted beyond all reckoning — Tell me,
how could I take you seriously?  An overdose of Delirium.  You must be joking, poor bastard.
You’re not even an amateur, you are (at best) an unintelligible novice: a horrendous facsimile,
a runt court-jester, a torpid worm, a grunting poser, a syndicated dumb-show, a peddler of lesser
counterfeit things, a bootleg-alabaster statue manufactured out of styrofoam and plaster,
a sullied shard of paraphernalia, a quagmire of coagulated bong-water, a vinegary overripe
shitty Merlot, a rancid pong of rotten lobster bisque souring in a saucepan then poured into
a copper pot of lardy broth, a throngless vomiting albatross, a carrion hybrid of charlatan
and harlot, an obtrusive vulture gobbling up the roadkill of global culture: conclusion,
a microwave can-opener cook. By all means persuade me otherwise to look upon you more favorably,
you’re a miserable monstrosity.  Sorry I’m not sorry, because I mean it, why else.  Such a piss-pot 
slipshod chef as ever I’ve seen, for the love of god can’t you feel exothermic heat, you’re searing chops 
of meat for Christ’s sake.  I’ve seen a Parisian Octogenarian Street Mime with a bad case of the shakes cook a meal with five times more grace, dexterity, and overall skill than this half-ass shit you’ve so
poorly engendered: accursed concoction — Mercy, you’ve taken more piss out of me than a catheter.
Hark, the sniveling wanker!

 

Go down and withdraw —
persona non grata:
Exit the clown.
Fuck off!

 
 

© CMR, 2014
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About Cam M. Roberts

Actor, Writer & Poet. WFU '12. NCSSM '08.
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