This chapter is based on a true story.
.
.
.
Suddenly, Sasuke's shitty car turned into a jet and it soared into the air that smelt like cheap Christmas trees you'd buy on clearance after the holidays. Sasuke pressed a button that made a 'ribbet' noise like a gay frog when he hit it, and they both jumped out of the jet at 438 mph. They both floated down using their parachutes and landed on top of a local Kohl's – across the street from Olive Garden. Sasuke pulled out his flip phone and dialed the National M&M McFlurry hotline and told them their current situation. "Nigga, why the fuck did you call us?!" screeched the voice on the other end. "We have more important matters to attend to. Our most popular caller Brian Snipes is on the other line right now!" They hung up and it made Sasuke so depressed that he wrote a shitty poem on a piece of bubblegum wrapper in his pocketbook. "You know it's fucked when the pain feels nice. Cheap liquor on ice." Sasuke wrote as a tear dribbled down his buttcheek.
Since Uchiha Sasuke was always full of surprises, he pulled out a ladder that could extend to 5093 feet and he bought it at Lowe's if you're interested. They slid down like how firefighters do in movies and you wonder how they don't get heartburn from eating so much chili. They then hitchhiked forty feet across the Kohl's parking lot and walked into Olive Garden.
Instantly, the smell of Chef Boyardee's recipes and Adam Sandler's farts entered their hairy nostrils. Sakura looked down and avoided eye contact with the cashier and looked at the greasy floor. The light reflected off her shiny toenails and wondered if she had toe crud that smelt like mozzarella cheese.
"Good evening, ladies. I'm Yamakazi Garth Brooks Sosuke – but you can just call me Dooter for short. I'll be your waiter this evening," said a man with blonde dreads and blue eyes. "Would you like a table or a fucking stank ass booth?"
"Hmm," Sakura paused thoughtfully as if her IQ wasn't in the single digits. "I think we'd like a booth-"
"Table." Sasuke interrupted. "Oh, and we'll need a highchair. 'Kay? Thanks." Sasuke finished snappily. He was such a little diva and ready to end the conversation with the man who looked like he had rotten cheese fries on top of his oily head.
"A highchair?" the man named Sosuke questioned, looking around the couple. "I don't see a kid with ya'll, though?"
"That's because it's for me, turd goblin." Sasuke said venomously through gritted teeth. He cracked his knuckles like he was preparing to beat up that Jamaican cinnamon stick in the Apple Jacks commercials. "So, shut your octagon chin ass up!"
"Yes, ma'am," Sosuke said with a Nickelodeon green slime lip-gloss on his thin lips. "My apologies. I'll bring our extra large helicopter just for you, baby boo!"
Did he just say helicopter instead of highchair?
They followed the froo-froo man to their table and sat down awkwardly and the wine glasses clinked together and made a silly sound when the man collected them. He assumed they were too emotionally retarded to handle any kind of alcohol. Yes, that included rubbing alcohol. Suddenly Sasuke's Jesse McCartney ring tone resounded through the entire fucking restaurant. Sosuke recognized the song as 'Hollaback Hungry-Man TV Dinners' and started dancing like a fruit of the loom underwear for circus clowns' dirty assholes. Everyone in the restaurant started dancing. It was like an olive oil dance club rather than a restaurant, now.