From: "H. Chase" Newsgroups: alt.paranormal,sci.skeptic,alt.usenet.kooks Subject: The Flagship1 Paranormal Eatery Lines: 132 Organization: GodFist Ministries, Inc. X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.50.4133.2400 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Message-ID: Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2000 17:17:14 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.193.13.78 X-Complaints-To: abuse@swbell.net X-Trace: nnrp1.sbc.net 972685136 207.193.13.78 (Fri, 27 Oct 2000 17:18:56 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2000 17:18:56 CDT A repost, per the request of Flaggy. ----- The Flaship1 Paranormal Eatery Ellen and John, a young professional couple, have a standing Thursday evening date. Every week they try a new restaurant. For weeks, John drove by the Flaship1 Paranormal Eatery on his way home from work, and wondered what kind of interesting cuisine would be offered there. Ellen was always saying how much she enjoyed new and different experiences. Perhaps she would enjoy this. So they went. As they walked into the restaurant, they looked about a noticed that it was rather unoccupied. There was another couple in the back fluttered over what looked to be astrology charts. A slight man with strange, puffy black hair huddled over a bizarre blue cocktail muttering to himself. "Are you sure this place is safe?" Ellen asked. "It looks fine. Maybe Friday's are their busy night," John glanced about for a host to seat them. Then, they noticed a sign by the host podium that read: Welcome to The Flaship1! Seat yourself. ARRIVED: Flight 82 Zeta Reticuli 4:00PM In case of departure, kitchen will be closed. John shrugged and led an uncertain Ellen to a table near the window. They sat down and began reading the menus. "Roasted chicken, rack of lamb, hamburgers . . ." John read aloud, "the food seems normal." Ellen scanned over the menu, and nodded in agreement. Suddenly, a nervous-looking young man appeared next to their table. "Hello. I am Flagship1 of the Paranormal. Welcome to my world, filled with paranormal possibilities." The waiter appeared as if he might skitter underneath the table at any moment. John smiled and Ellen frowned. "What are your specials, tonight?" Ellen asked with some skepticism. "Grilled tuna with shallots in a butter sauce or chicken cordon bleu." "I'll have the chicken, please." Ellen closed her menu, "and your house Chardonnay." "Okay, chicken and Chardonnay." The waiter scribbled something on his pad. "And you, sir?" "Ah, here it is," John pointed at the menu, "I'll have the New York Strip, medium please. And a glass of Merlot." After writing down the rest of the order, Flaship1 disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the couple to their conversation. After a few moments, he returned with a glass of ketchup and a slice of pastrami, setting them in front of Ellen and John. "What is this?!" John sputtered; unsure of whether or not this was a joke. "Your drinks, sir." "No, this is ketchup and lunchmeat." Ellen uttered as she poked at the pastrami with her spoon, which was bent for some strange reason. "And can you turn off that fan, please?" "How can you be sure? It could be wine. And we don't have any fans, here." Flagship1 grinned as he set a breadbasket, covered with a cloth between them. It smelled like burning hair. "What in God's name is THAT?" John lifted the napkin just enough to see that not bread, but a well-roasted cat lie beneath. Ellen gasped, and John recoiled. "There is a DEAD CAT under there!" "No there isn't. They are our fresh, toasted biscuits. Try one!" The waiter spoke with complete sincerity, and John began to wonder if this was really happening. "This is clearly a cat. Are you seriously expecting us to believe that this CAT is actually a biscuit?" The waiter cleared his throat, "Well, there are many paranormal possibilities. How do you know that biscuits aren't really cats? I'm not 100% certain they are, but they could be." "No, this is a dead, roasted cat. And you are insane!" John stood up and took Ellen's hand. "I think you are missing my point." John started out of the restaurant with Ellen short in tow. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing that you don't believe! The spirits told me, so I choose to believe . . . ," Flaship1 screeched as he followed closely behind them, an oscillating fan bouncing after him. "I'm going to report this restaurant to the health department. You can't serve dead cats to people!" Ellen cried out incredulously. Suddenly, the strange man at the bar stood up and pointed an accusing finger at them. "PSF bastards! You are trying to censor us! This is OUR restaurant! I'll call the IRS and have your house taken away!" "What? You can't do that!" John grew angry as the strange man came closer, screaming acronyms with more fervency than an evangelist. "Stop interrogating me! Bigots!" Ellen and John ran for their lives, and never went back to The Flaship1 Paranormal Eatery. To this day, you can still visit that restaurant and experience the most abnormal cuisine on the planet. And the moral of this story is . . . You can put a cat in the oven, but that doesn't make it a biscuit, Flaggy. -- Regards, H. Chase ------ Mandatory Website http://www.geocities.com/chase_therapist/