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Just. F*cking. Omelettes.

No, we don't have any crepes. We don't have OJ or corn bread or waffles. We cannot and will not offer you bacon, sausage, or ham.

Just. F*cking. Omelettes.

Read the damn sign.

We got an omelette station and a pretty questionable dishwasher. There are two goddamn tables in the entire establishment. We can't even afford new hairnets, for Christ's sake. Just. F*cking. Omlettes. Do I have to repeat myself for every customer? You have the menu, you see how all the items are under one title that says, oddly enough, 'Omelettes'?!

Our sign is twenty goddamn feet long. With neon.

What's that? Oh sure, I can make you a pancake. It might look and taste like our onion and liver omelette, though, hope you don't mind. Because, you know, that's all we f*cking do. Just. Omelettes.

I don't know who sends you here. Zagats or some fruity food critic. You've been mistaken in our culinary range. It's ok, we all make mistakes. Just accept it. Accept that I will not make you 'eggs over easy with a touch of hollandaise sauce'.

Oh, you want scrambled eggs, just scrambled eggs? Alright, fine.

But I'mma gonna throw in some chives just to fuck with ya.


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