John goes to the deli for some soup. After he’s seated and about to eat he calls the waiter over. When the waiter comes he says, “Taste this soup.”
The waiter says, “Why what’s wrong with the soup?”
John says, “Taste this soup.”
The waiter says, “John, you’ve come in here for thirty years and you always get the soup, you’ve never complained before.”
John says, “Taste this soup.”
The waiter says, “What?
What is it?
If you don’t want the chicken soup we have other kinds – vegetable, Italian Ministrone?”
John says, “Taste this soup!”
The waiter finally agrees, “Fine John, fine! I’ll taste the soup”.
He leans over the table prepared to taste the soup, he hesitates and says, “Where’s your spoon?”
“Exactly,” says John, “Where’s my bloody spoon?”
A man goes to his therapist to have a dream interpreted. “So, Mr.
Carter,” Dr.
Greaves said, scribbling a note. “You said the dream has been recurring?”
“Yes,” Carter replied, his voice just above a whisper. “Three nights now.
Same dream.
Same feeling… of being stuck.”
Dr. Greaves nodded slowly.
“Go on. Start from the beginning.”
“I’m seated at a long table — long like a ballroom banquet,” he began.
“Candles flicker in gold holders.
Silverware gleams. A full seven-course meal lies ahead. I know that, somehow.
I don’t see the menu, but I know.
Soup, salad, fish, meat, palate cleanser, dessert, and… something after that. Something grand.”
Greaves raised an eyebrow.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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