96: Nitpickers Inc.

There’s a fly buzzing about.  What a pigsty this place is, it should be condemned.  My spaghetti with meatballs has too much oregano.  Send it back, burn the menus, hang the chef Mussolini style.  There’s a dust particle on the floor.  Don’t get me started. I’m losing sleep.  Mom calls, gives me grief about that pizza I burned fifteen years ago.  You ruined it, she says, I could’ve broken teeth on the crust.  Mom’s voice is like razor blades on chalkboard.  When are you getting married, she barks, the fifty-third time she’s asked.