BLOOD IN THE SALAD: A GYPSY CURSE
Greg Yurikovitch sliced a sliver of skin from the tip of his finger as he was doing prep for the day at Uncle Billy's All You Can Eat Buffet. A haze of hangover prevented him from noticing anything at first and the specks of blood went unnoticed at the bottom of the plastic bin of lettuce.
"Ah, shit," he burped, looking at his blood-shiny finger tip. He looked around for immediate relief not knowing what he was looking for.
After a moment of sober clarity he went to the employee's toilet to rummage up a bandage and the morning returned to its regular course of affairs.
For lunch that day a gypsy found a spot of red in the middle of his salad. He complained to the manager, a heavy set man with a face which resembled a clenched fist.
"You sir, are by no means a food critic and consequently of no consequence to us. By God look at you. Your shirt doesn't even fit you properly. You fancy yourself a man of judgement, but here you are in front of me with sleeves stretched up around your forarms. You can't even dress yourself," the manager shouted in a fit of rage. No one complained in his restaurant about anything. It was a place of perfection.
The gypsy, affronted by this display of abysmal service, immediately set about conjuring up a curse for the hands that prepared the food: screaming tasmanian devils die, headless torsos fired off into a white sky, no clothes will ever fit this guy.
And the gypsy walked out without a word, while the manager shouted out abuse and insults after him
But it was true, clothes would never fit Greg Yurikovitch ever again. His dress pants would droop or his running shoes would be too tight. He would never find a comfortable fit for the rest of his life.
And his mornings spent struggling with hangovers increased tenfold.