I Have A Problem

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At my restaurant, I make delightful meals for the most elite of customers, such as this stunning pork dish here.

Hello. My name is Pierre Moreau, and I have a problem. I should probably begin by telling you a little bit about myself. I'm 34 years old, a Frenchman living in Seattle, Washington. I immigrated here from France with my family at the age of twelve, and have lived here ever since. At 19, I attended the Seattle School of Culinary Aptitude, and graduated summa cum laude at the age of 21. At 24, I'd risen to the position of Assistant to the Head Chef at Chez Chic, Seattle's premiere French restaurant, and one of the most exclusive dining establishments in the entire United States. In fact, it's so exclusive that I wasn't even able to personally apply for my initial job of garbage-disposal maintainer there. I was kidnapped in the middle of the night, blindfolded, thrown into the back of a nondescript black van and driven around in circles until I was sufficiently disoriented not to realize what direction we were going in, and taken to what I assume was an underground grotto of some sort where my interview was conducted. I passed with flying colors, but that's beyond the point.

After several years of assistance to the Head Chef, he recently, regrettably, passed on. For nine months now, I've been serving as Head Chef, and have received universal praise for my work, some even venturing as far to say that my culinary talents have surpassed that of my esteemed predecessor. While these comments have humbled and filled me with pride, they also deeply sadden me. For, you see, I have committed a most shocking grievance against my very important and influential clientèle. I can hardly bear to speak these words, but I have to get this off my conscience. Okay, here goes...

When nobody's looking, I jizz in everyone's food.

At my restaurant, I regrettably jizz all over the delightful meals I make for my customers, such as this exquisite oyster escabeche.

I don't mean to do it. It's just that I see these people in their suits and ties and tastefully-sequined strapless dresses, and I just can't help myself. It's not to be rebellious against a greed-driven capitalist society in which these few wealthy denizens of my fancy restaurant hold a large majority of the nation's power, even though they're getting sloppily drunk on expensive brandy while I watch them, stroking myself furiously. And to tell the truth, it doesn't even have any effect of arousal on my mind either. I don't know why I do it, but ever since I became the head chef, I just can't stop myself.

And I don't merely select a patron or two each night, either. I jizz in every single diner's meal, sometimes multiple courses, throughout the course of a ten hour day, and still somehow make time to prepare the very meals themselves, heavily praised by my adoring public, none of them the wiser that the secret glaze I've been using for all these months, that they continuously rave about in newspaper reviews and at snooty coffee shops, is indeed my sperm and nothing more.

There. That wasn't so bad. Feels good to get that off my chest.

But wait. There's more.

At cocktail parties, I typically substitute gin for jizz.

I know this makes me seem like a bad person, but I'm really not. I just can't control myself is all... Whenever I'm at a cocktail party, I hide in the closet and loosen the stitching on the buttons of all the coats. I don't know what it is about it that makes me feel so excited, but the thrill of it all is just beyond conveyance. The thought of the swanky party attendees, fidgeting with their buttons all the way home in the cab. Most of them do take cabs, of course, being that most of them get sloppily drunk on fine brandy at these sorts of functions. I mean, these people are my friends, and some are my social superiors, but a lush is a lush, and I can't help but tell you that I take their excessive drinking at social events heavily into consideration when formulating the button plan for each weekend's events. I even make sure to spike all of the punch and hors d'oeuvres for any teetotaling guests who may wander in from time to time. I'm a horrible person, but it makes me feel like a man.

Alright, I lied. I don't undo their buttons, I just jizz all over their coats and rub it in with a coarse sponge. Don't judge me.

There's something else.

At my restaurant, I'm in command of a kitchen full of aspiring gourmet chefs. In my dreams, I'm in command of a kitchen full of sexy ladies covered in jizz.

You're probably going to think I'm weird. It's just, these damned compulsions, sometimes I don't even know I'm doing these things. It just seems so natural, it's like I'm diseased... Okay. This is the thing. I use Ecuadorian school children as unwilling drug mules by replacing 70% of their blood with hashish oil and sending them through an underground tunnel that leads to the home of a prominent mafia boss in Chicago. He then siphons out the oil with a garden hose, usually killing the children in the process, and subsequently bronzes their bodies for use as decorative statues in and around his luxurious 42-acre estate.

I know! I know! I shouldn't be doing it, I should be able to control myself. But, ironically considering my entirely non-sexual reasons for jizzing on people's food and clothing, doing this is the only way I can become truly aroused. It feels like having sex with every 10 in the world at the same time. It's like having multiple dicks, one for every 10, and just sticking it right to them, like horny little rabbits, all at the same time, and then jizzing like a pressure washer all over all of their delicately-tanned faces, accidentally getting some in their hair, and then slapping them when they complain about it. But it's even better... Well, um, I guess that little outburst takes care of telling you about another of my problems. I guess it's a little less awkward this way... Is it?

Wait. Wait. Don't call the police. There's one more thing.

At my restaurant, I might serve my meals with a nice Italian wine. I don't drink much at the auctions because it slurs my speech.

Okay. Look. I'm really embarrassed about this. But Dr. Lawrence took out a restraining order, and he was always recommending group therapy, and everybody always says you guys are supposed to be kind and accepting and warm... Alright... I have a substantial supply of Nazi memorabilia stashed away behind a false bookcase in my basement. Every couple of weeks I organize a secret gathering of influential foreign diplomats to come to my home, and then I proceed to auction off certain pieces to the highest bidder. The Romanians seem to show a particular interest, especially in the drink coasters. But that's beyond the point.

Oh, they're charity auctions, though! All the money goes to a very worthy cause, and some auctions can yield millions of dollars! What charity? Oh, well it's this delightful little dungeon we have built overseas. You see, the idea is that we send these extremely muscular Russian thugs to areas all over the globe, and they kidnap people at random, bringing them back to the dungeon, where they're mercilessly tortured for every waking moment of the remainder of their long and miserable lives. I put up a bit of a fight at the suggestion that 100% of the profits go to fund it, but the kids seem to like it. And it's tax-deductible, so what the hell, you know?

Before we go...

At my restaurant, I progressively go stark raving mad from gut-wrenching, misery-inducing guilt.

I'd just like to confess to one more thing, here. Oh, by all means, go ahead. I can talk while fitting into a straight-jacket. I've got very exceptional mouth-eye coordination. Anyways, I've had this thing really bothering me for the longest time now. I'm not proud of it, and I've heard you can be arrested for it. It might just be my undoing, but I've got to get it out in the open. I hear the screams of all of those little children in the store every night, and in my dreams, and I know that telling the truth is the only way that I can find peace.

I... I... I squeezed the Charmin! There, I said it! I'm a monster! I'm a subhuman! No, you don't understand! I SQUEEZED the Charmin! I'm a bad person! I don't deserve to be the head chef! I don't deserve universal acclaim! I don't deserve a tall white hat! I don't deserve this beautiful jacket! I don't deserve to live!

Please... Oh please, Lord God, forgive me for my sins! I don't want to be this man! I don't want to be the man who squeezed the Charmin! I spend my nights and weekends alone, wallowing in my self-loathing, dreaming of the day when thy merciful hand will swiftly expunge my contemptible presence from the depths of this den of debauchery and evil! Save me, oh Lord! Save me, oh Master! Save me, Frank Zappa!

What's this? I see a light! A bright... red light. A flashing red light, heavens, it must have happened. I've been sent to hell for my sins! Well, if this is the way it's going to be, I suppose there's nothing left to do but sit here and play the harmonica... for all eternity, I presume.


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