Sometimes it’s not easy to think of something to write about and then lo and behold, I look in my inbox and someone has sent me a story that cries out for my spin on it. I have written about pubic hair in food, jizz in food and now a new topic: poop in food. The story is from 2008, but it still needs to be discussed. Apparently, some customer in Sydney, Australia once accused a chef of putting doody all up in a bowl of ice cream and then serving it to her table. The article does not say what flavor the ice cream was, but I am going to go out on a dark colored limb and say it was chocolate mocha with caramel swirl and dingleberry delight. According to the vast amount of research I did (I read this article), the patron complained that the music was too loud and they couldn’t hear a televised football game, or rugby or kangaroo soccer, or whatever the fuck they call it, so they complained. Next thing they knew, some bitch had a mouthful of dirty diaper rejects. “The stench went through my nostrils, I retched and spat it into the napkin,” said the poop-eating whore. Now, I wasn’t there and I have absolutely no idea what really happened, but it seems highly unlikely that a cook is going to go through the trouble to squeeze out some business just because someone complained about the noise level of the music. First off, I have never met a cook who gave a shit (hee, hee…gave a shit…) about what was happening in the front of the house. Secondly, wouldn’t it be way more trouble than it’s worth to take a squat on a bowl of ice cream? I mean, he wouldn’t do it right there in the kitchen in front of everyone and I can’t imagine that he would actually bother to scoop out ice cream and then carry the dish all the way to the bathroom to release his bowels on it. And what about the patron lady of scat? When she looked at her glass dish of ice cream, did she not notice that something about it wasn’t quite right? Again, I have never seen crap mixed into ice cream, but I think it would look odd. Maybe the flies buzzing around it, the smell or the kernels of corn would be a dead giveaway. But what do I know? I don’t know shit.
So who is telling the truth? The customers said that the restaurant offered them $5,000 in hush money but the restaurant said they wanted a million. The staff was willing to take DNA tests to prove that the poop wasn’t theirs. But that doesn’t mean shit either because the poop could have belonged to a koala bear, a dingo or some other Australian inhabitant that refused to submit to DNA testing. Or it was possibly the poop of the customer herself and she as looking for a way to cash in on her own excrement. Since the story is over two years old, I can’t find any follow up to it, so I am not sure what happened. So I shall assume:
The DNA tests came back and confirmed that the ice cream did in fact have a helping heaping of hot poo in it but it did not match the DNA of the restaurant employees. The woman refused to submit to DNA testing and the case was dropped with no monies changing hands. The restaurant went on to great success with a new ad campaign that said “Eat Here. We Don’t Crap in Your Ice Cream, Mate. G’day.” The chef created a new sundae called “Fudge Packed” that won the coveted Golden Spoon of Down Under Award for best new dessert. The customer went on to find money and fame in a video that went viral. It was called Two Girls, One Cup. (I will not link to that video, but Google it if you really wanna know.) She was most recently seen in front of the Sydney Opera House sitting on a portable toilet and calling it an art exhibit. While Men at Work blasted in the background, she held a cardboard sign that said “I Will Poop for a Vegemite Sandwich.”