Bobatruscent was new…but, not really. Actually, every conversation gravitated back to some other place he’d lived.

“When I lived in Rhode Island, I knew this kid named Skinks. We’d come out the house and see ol Skinky outside poking his head through the fence and we’d chase him down the block. Always caught ‘im. We’d pistol whip’im with our peckers.”

“Oh.”
He came in as the morning cook — exclusively breakfast — a real breakfast veteran from all over. His 300 lb frame hung over the grill — sweat dripping into the breakfast.

“Just some extra flavor for’em! HAR-HAR-HAR-HAR {COUGH, cough}”

His scraggly brown hair went everywhere. It dropped down to just above his shoulders. He resembled a “Fat Elvis” impersonator channeling Jerry Garcia on a bad day.

The grease soaked from him to the grill and back again in a putrid cycle. His whole body was breakfast. The omelettes were spectacular. He took pride in his work. The kitchen was blocked off — nobody ever saw him aside from the other line cooks. In early, out early. Scratching his exposed back crack only for our pleasure. No gloves.

Health inspector got the works on the house. So good he’d never complain. A+…tip-top. Keep up the good work.

So, the next time you eat a delicious breakfast just think of Bobatruscent and his labor of love.