18. November 2006 21:59
Dear Ashton Kutcher,
On Saturday, November 18th, in the year of our Lord and Savior: 2006, I dined at Dolce Enoteca, your Italian/American fusion/fission restaurant/bar. May the good Lord rest my digestive system.
I won’t complain about the moderately bad service. I have been to enough LA restaurants to know that what you people call a service industry is simply legalized aggressive begging by wannabe actors. So it’s OK that our water was refilled sparingly, bus service was non-existent and our second round of drinks shuffled to the table roughly 10 minutes after we finished our meals. I won’t complain about a 20 dollar crab cake appetizer that made up for its tiny size with completely average taste. Nor about the six or seven crab ravioli that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be hot or cold or just plain strong.
But when your bathroom(s) staged an uprising and released a torrent of excrement into the dining room entrance, this pious diner had had his fill. How is it possible that a mere toilet could spew forth a river of waste through an entire restaurant? Or was the toilet a mere agent and an overfed customer the principle? Indeed, the Tigris and Euphrates could never flood with such a return on the gallon. But whereas the former cradled civilization, your floor will now cradle E. Coli. And Cholera. And your competitor’s burritos.
So long. Farewell. Smell you laters.