Franky and Bitchy at the Clair de Prune
Frank came up to my locker this morning with his posse of bitches in matching pink satin capris, ripped my new diamond-studded T-Mobile G-Unit Signature Sidekick out of my trembling mitts, and hurled it onto the floor. As it shattered into a thousand pieces, he leaned in and, seemingly exhausted by his own coolness, whispered,
“That shizz is so over. GIGGLE, bitches!” His bitches giggled. “Now let us abscond.” As they left, I trembled like the very seams of the pantalons that strained to accommodate his conspicuous manhood.
Between profiling classic foils Pope John Paul II and Delta Burke this week (?????????), Frank decides that beloved Lower East Side cranny Prune was hot when is was just a neighborhood spot swooned over by locals, foodies and critics, but now that the whole world is in on it, well, “it is easy to oversell it.”
Frank’s evidence for Prune’s overt hipness is the patronage of a one Chelsea Clinton. C-squared has never exactly been the official flag of coolness— it’s not like she made Stanford or Doctor Zizmor’s office the new Bungalow 8, but point taken. He concludes that Chelse is a “smart woman.” Why? Because she likes what Frank, despite his lone, stingy star, unabashedly adores: Prune’s “homey cooking,” which includes the roasted marrow bones that he clearly goes at Doberman-style and can’t stop talking about.
He also loves the ass-kicking bloody marys, which I would never fault him for, as that would constitute a MAJOR calling of the kettle "Black!" by the pot.
Result of sonar scan of Jules' abdomen.
With a “Goooooood morning!" his server encouraged him to throw back his Red Stripe chaser: “And a very good morning it indeed turned out to be,” he confesses.
Awesome. Been there, done that, man. Ain’t no shame.
Frank has obviously not outgrown his childhood habit of ramming his Barbies together like drumsticks and voicing their passionate moans. His bloody was “the torrid love affair of an angry tomato and a margarita.” And randier still, “that pancake is … so ethereally appealing that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth would probably fight to the sticky death over the privilege of coating it.” Cut to Frank’s face twitching as he lies in a Louis XVI four-poster bed with a long nightcap on, dreaming about Hungry Man and Sloppy Joe duking it out for his favor. “Oh, Hungry! Oh, Sloppy! Stop that! You can both have me!”
"mmyessss, yes I like this fantasy!"
"[Prune] has mirth to spare, moxie to burn. It listens to its own muse and operates by a credo of whimsical indulgence." Operating with whimsical indulgence is when a surgeon attaches a vintage '70's edition of Candyland to your small intestine. What Prune does is make deLICIOUS food. But he knows that: he accelerates toward the end of his review with rousing praise for the apps and the bar menu, then slams on the breaks at one star, and still chewing, moaning esuriently, his lips glistening with beef fat, mumbles, “Whatever, you guys, this place is so [BUUUUURP] 5 seconds ago.”