strolls into the most exclusive restaurant in town.
'Where's your motherfucking manager, you cocksucking arse-wipe?' he inquires of one of the waiters.
The waiter is taken aback and replies, 'Excuse me, sir, but could you please refrain from using that sort of language in here? I will retrieve my manager as soon as I can'.
The manager comes over and the bloke blurts out, 'Would you be the chicken-fucking manager of this bitchy place..? Cocksucker!'
'Yes sir, I am,' replies the manager, 'but I would most prefer it if you could refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant'.
'Fuck you, I've got the Tourette's - cunt-tripe!,' replies the bloke, 'where's your piano, please?'
'Pardon?' says the manager.
'Fucking deaf as well, are we? Please, would you show me your bastard piano, I'm applying for your open position.'
'Ah,' replies the manager, 'you've come about the pianist job,' and shows the bloke to the piano. 'Can you play any blues?'
'Of course I can....fuck'n pisseater..!'
The bloke then proceeds to situate himself in front of the keys and play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky-tonk blues that the manager has ever heard.
'That's superb. What's it called?'
'I tried to shag yer missus on the sofa but the springs kept pinching my dick,' replied the bloke.
The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz.
The bloke proceeds playing the most melancholy, yet enchanting slow jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
'Magnificent,' cries the manager. 'What's it called?'
'I wanted a wank over the washing machine but I got my balls caught in the soap drawer'.
The manager is a tad embarrassed, yet he asks the pianist if he knows any romantic ballads. The bloke then plays the most heartbreaking melody the manager has ever heard, 'And what's this called?' asks the manager.
'As I fuck you under the stars with the moonlight shining off your hairy ring-piece,' smiles the bloke, obviously rather proud of his masterpieces...
The manager is highly upset by the bloke's language, but offers him the job on condition that he doesn't introduce any of his songs or talk to any of the customers.
This arrangement works extremely well for a couple of months until one night, sitting opposite him, is the most gorgeous blonde he has ever laid his eyes upon.
She's wearing an almost see-through dress, her breasts are practically cascading out of the top of her black lace bra, and the skimpy little g-string she's wearing is doing very little to conceal her ample charms. She's sitting there, in front of him with her long, tanned legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus shoots as the butter is dripping down her chin.
The image is too much for the bloke, and he scurries off to the Gents Room to furiously masturbate.
He's tugging away when he hears the manager's voice: 'Where's that blarney pianist?'
He just has time to relieve himself, and, in a fluster, he runs back to the piano, having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts playing some more tunes.
The blonde steps up and walks over to the piano, leans over and whispers in his ear, 'Do you know your knob and bollocks are hanging out of your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?'
The bloke replies, 'Darling...not only do I know it? I fucking wrote it!'
Constant Gardener
The same GQP demanding we move on from January 6th, 2021 is still doing audits of the November 3rd, 2020 election.
