Testimonials

Gordo gathers the staff and gives them the good news: Their kitchen is disgusting. They are all shocked. First thing's first: scrub, bitches. Good Son is pissed that he's being forced to clean up after his idiot brother and Bad Son's pissed that someone has the nerve to tell him he's not clean. Ball scratch burp. He calms down a little when he sees that Gordo puts his money where his mouth is and cleans his ass off. I have always been impressed by this, too, and I have to add that our hero is pretty sweet and docile so far today. Even after he barfed his brains out he spoke very gently to the staff. What gives?

Time for dinner service arrives and no customers show up for a couple of hours. Finally, the Firemen make a subtle appearance, coming off their huge fire truck with lights flashing. You know what that means, don't you? The fingers on the pulse of Westhampton have arrived! Classical music plays as they discuss the most recent NY Times bestsellers and critique the touring company of Wicked while Bad Son shows Ramsay what he's made of in the kitchen. And by show him what he's made of, I mean talks on his cell phone, scratches his balls, and completely ignores his sous chef; an old deaf dude named Francis who drops a wing on the floor, picks it up, and throws it in the fryer. So. Wrong. Just in case we didn't catch it the first three times it was replayed, we get a FOX cam special report on the matter, complete with black and white footage and spotlights.

He's not a child molester, for crying out loud.

Still, Ramsay stays cool as a cucumber. He calmly uses American Sign Language to ask Francis if he just picked food up off the floor and served it, and Francis signs back "Duh." Then he scibbles on a Hello Kitty pad he keeps in his jacket, saying that he didn't see a problem using food from the floor because the fryer would sterilize it. I buy it, but I recently tried to chain smoke away a cold. Gordo not so much. Since Bad Son won't listen to him, he drags him into the dining room to receive his critique from the pulse of the community.

The firemen dab at the corners of their mouths with their napkins and put on their reading glasses, saying the flounder was obviously frozen and not nearly as flaky as it should have been, the corned beef was dry, and the general experience lacked the adventure and excitement the town of Westhampton needed if it was going to thrive as the artistic and culinary hub it was destined to be. Bad Son nods and takes it in before asking the cameras the question that's been at the forefront of my mind: What the fuck do a bunch of volunteer firemen know?

They may not be as fancy as some other town's fingers on pulses, but they are human beings with tongues, and this place sucks ass. Once again, Bad Son shakes his head, rolls his eyes and chugs a beeah. Shrug ball scratch. Ew again. Wash your hands, dude.

Want me to sterilize that for ya?

Gordo meets privately with Buddy to find out just how screwed he is. Turns out he's losing over five thousand dollars a week. He's spent all of his retirement money, taken loans out on everything he's ever bought, and even borrowed from a friend. He's never even cashed a pay check. Good Son understands and tries to be as supportive as possible, but Bad Son just makes things worse and if he wasn't Buddy's spawn he would have been fired a long time ago. Since he is his spawn, Buddy'll do what's best for him and let him abuse everyone around him and scratch his balls and yap on his cell phone and pound beers all day surrounded by endless bottles of booze so he'll never have to be sober enough to venture into the real world and get made fun of for his misshapen face or his beady eyes ever again. Aw, Buddy. Hugs!

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Posted in Kitchen Nightmares by Flipit at 9:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)
Last Comment: dingfriesaredone on Nov 22, 2007 10:32 PM.