Is this way to say it:
Waiter, there’s a
fly in my Boiled Human Finger
soup.
No, that’s too simple. That won’t do. The waiter will think of me as a follower of spoken norms, a parroter of clichés. That won’t do at all.
Then, is it supposed to be like this: Excuse me, waiter, but I must object to the
dastardly presence of a
six-legged insect in my Boiled
Human Finger soup. Please, my good man, do take care of it.
No, that’s too British, too stuck up.
How about ‘Hey waiter, there’s a fucking fly in the Boiled Human Finger soup, you asshole.’
No, no, that’s too aggressive, it maybe would have suited a gangster or even a beefy redneck, but that’s just not me. I will not be so insulting to any one.
Waiter, a moment please if you will, but something just came up, or rather floated up to the top of this, my Boiled Human Finger soup. It’s a fly, what do you know, a fly, and a dead one at that. Seeing a dead fly is such a
rarity nowadays, not like the good old days of our youth. Here, take it, it’s not going to be buzzing around anymore so you can give it a decent
burial,
tombstone and all, and then possibly cart over a fresh, insect-less Boiled Human Finger soup, what do you say?
Such charm, such satire, it would be an utter waste on that stupid waiter, so why bother?
Waiter, ah, consider my Boiled Human Finger soup, a
metaphysical terminal; a
closure, an
end-point, a
black-hole of thought,
idea and dream; a resting place for a
soul before it carries on further, higher.
Whoa, that’s way too philosophical, the waiter will probably think I just smoked a joint.
Waiter, my compliments to the chef on this fine Boiled Human Finger soup, a pity though about the fly.
Why am I being so politely sarcastic? I have nearly been made to eat a germ-rich blob of dead insect, I should be piqued if not actually enraged. So a little irritation please.
Waiter, what the hell is going on here? There’s a
bloody fly in my Boiled Human Finger soup.
Oh I couldn’t, poor chap. He just works here, probably he’s all worried about this month’s rent and his sick old mother back home. And then this. It would be too much for him, I couldn’t.
But why am I so fixated on how to say the damn thing instead of just saying it? Just say it, straight and normal, just get it over with. But …
Ok, I know what to do.
I’ll just let it be. It’s just a fly and I have already finished half the Boiled Human Finger soup anyway, so what does it matter? A fly in my Boiled Human Finger Soup, why am I getting so worked up over such a minor issue? I mean, I am sure there’s a much more disturbing problem around, right?