Imagine being invited to a house party where everyone has to bring something to eat. You put out your best efforts to prepare traditional mouth-watering Banana and Salt-fish fritters, along with a succulent sweet-potato pudding, Jamaican style. Only to be greeted by a soirée of Emma’s tasteless quiches. Dismayed, you try to sneak out when Pierre startles you with an “oh Wayne, you’re here!” With your neck crouched and your shoulders hoisted, you slowly turn around and with a faint smile you reply “I —-guess so!”
After the meet and greet, you sit at the table and judgingly stare at the liars in front of you gingerly tasting the quiche as if they were being held at gun-point. They each at some point or another muffle the words “oh! C’est trop bon”. You try not to laugh as you observe their suffering from your front row seat.
They all avoid eye-contact with the adorable but terrible cook, Emma. While minding your own business, enjoying the film of fakers and waiting for the dessert; Pierre asks with his heavy French accent “So Wayne, aren’t you gonna try Emma’s Quiche?” You glare at him as he smiles mischievously, and before you can reply, he dumps the largest slice of the evening onto your plate.
Imagine the Horror at the sight of the unholy quiche sneakily smiling up at you as it drips spermy cream onto your plate. You observe large cabbage leaves overlapping each other like a pile of dead bodies. The leaves are bursting through and dismantling the feeble crust like a plump woman’s breast in an undersized blouse— except less appetizing. In an instant, you black-out and the poisonous quiche comes alive. Then it bears horns and a pitch fork!
Afraid to insult Emma, you take your knife and fork and very slowly begin cutting a remarkably tiny slice while the evil mob examines your every move. You chuckle nervously and glimpse at all your potential murderers one more time.
You refuse to be poisoned by these glorious bastards, so you blurt out “I need to wash my hands!” and instantaneously, you exit the dinning room and locked yourself in the toilet. Once there, you try to convince yourself that it is just a quiche. You soap and wash your hands for five long minutes, then you pee and wash your hands again. Seconds before leaving the toilet, the horned quiche reappears jeering you from the mirror.
You snap out of it, put on your most fake smile and walk back without making any eye-contact with your treacherous “frenemies”. Back at the table, you cut an even smaller piece pretending not to see the one you had cut before; stalling to see if anyone would start choking and vomiting to save you from this impending danger but they don’t. After you cut your third and even smaller slice you jam it with your fork and without thinking and before eating, you utter the words “oh! c’est trop bon.”
Shocked at your utterance you realize that you’ve joined in with the band of hypocrites. They give you smiles of shameless approval with nodding heads, while your fork shakily approaches your mouth and the piece of quiche falls off. You hastily grab your napkin and wipe your mouth knowing that the monstrous quiche did not get anywhere close enough.
Through your side-eye you see Emma studying you with a frown of curiosity. You panic! You quickly shove another piece into your mouth! Your neck tightens. The corners of your throat spew sour saliva. Your stomach erupts and turns inside out and just as you vomit, you wake up screaming!
Tired from a long day, you had taken a nap. Emma is expecting you in exactly one hour. You call to cancel. Over the phone, Emma adorably says “C’est dommage! I made some really good quiches!” you consciously reply “oh c’est trop bon!”
You tell her you’ve already eaten but she convinces you to come by for dessert and to bring your Jamaican goodies. On arrival, Pierre of all people greets you at the door, “Oh Wayne! I saved you a piece of EMMA’s QUICHE!!!”
So you fake faint.