Hassidic Rabbis jumping on a trampoline toilet papered my house.

So I put on a wedding gown and drove my moped
to the all-you-can-eat buffet in Boca Raton.

When I stepped into the restaurant, the host, who resembles a horse,
was doing a handstand and led me, walking on his hands, to my table.

I come here often because of the chef’s culinary expertise.

That chef’s name is Ivan.
and he’s an Elvis impersonator,
which hasn’t had a shower in seventeen years,
walks an assortment of leashed three legged cats,
and always wears assless black leather chaps.

You can frequently hear him in the kitchen
blaring out quadratic equations to his waiters,
as well as quoting David Foster Wallace incessantly.

Sometimes he’ll come out into the dining area holding a spatula,
get up about two inches from a random person’s face,
and start screaming in tongues.
Stuff like:
“0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89…
OOBOOBOORAKALAKABINGBANGLLAMARAMALLAMABUTTBUTT!”

He’s kinda weird; however, his crepes are really good.

Once you get past the creepiness and bizarre outbursts,
you’ll like him.
Everyone here does.

As I sat down to eat,
a lazy-eyed Iranian man,
dressed in a dashiki,
bounced into the restaurant on a pogo stick and took a seat.

He was soon joined by the sweaty French guy, Pierre,
who appears in my shower occasionally
and does aerobics with me in there.

[Pierre doesn’t remove his beret at the table;
in fact, he never takes off his beret, not even in the shower.
He totally hates the smell of my shampoo but does like my soap.
His testicles and hydra-penises are neatly shaved as are the genitals of all French men.]

An elderly lady in a hockey mask
carrying a running chainsaw
stormed into the restaurant.

Both shrieking and laughing hysterically,
she danced like Elaine from “Seinfeld”
in a hexagonal pattern around the buffet table,
waving the chainsaw at everyone.

She then shredded apart an unoccupied table and walked out of the restaurant calmly,
like nothing happened, chainsaw still running and all.

[Since we are in Florida,
no one seemed to notice
or be perturbed by her actions
because this sort of thing happens all the time.]

I observed a bisexual hippopotamus performing trapeze tricks on some of the palm trees outside.
Unfortunately, it fell and landed on top of a deranged Jehovah’s Witness
who was doing push-ups in the middle of the sidewalk.

It turned out that Jehovah’s Witness was Pierre’s cousin,
and Pierre completely flipped out,
twirling around his arms like the Tasmanian Devil,
cursing in a mixture of English and French,
and whirling food from the buffet at Floridians inside and outside the restaurant.

I started chucking food back at him, the Iranian started heaving food at me, a kindergarten teacher jumped out from under a table and began picking up and throwing five year-olds at the Iranian, a pregnant woman began giving birth to babies and firing newborns at the kindergarten teacher from a slingshot, Ivan burst out of the kitchen speaking in tongues and threw a cat at the woman firing babies, the host ran in on his hands, flinging dishes at Ivan with his feet, and suddenly Michael Jordan and Lebron James showed up out of nowhere hurling basketballs at everyone.

I’d had too much, so I crawled on my hands and knees out of the restaurant into the street.

I saw an “Action News at 11” reporter moonwalking over to his helicopter
and attempted to inform him of the melee.

He told me to get lost because a bald-headed, intoxicated Britney Spears
was just seen flying around the Lake Okeechobee mall in a jetpack,
attacking headless obese people with a cattle prod.

Obviously this was a more important story.

Besides, he said food fights like this happen all the time in Florida.
[I still gave the reporter a handjob anyway.]

Then I hopped on my moped and drove as fast as I could
to see the bald-headed Britney Spears
and maybe get her autograph
or at least borrow some toilet paper from her.