The Geographical Meal


  Waitress: Hawaii, Mister?  You must be Hungary.

  Gent: Yes, Siam.  And I can't Rumania long, either.  Venice lunch ready?

  Waitress: I'll Russia table.  What are you Ghana Havre?  Aix?

  Gent: You want Tibet?  I prefer Turkey.  Can Jamaica cook step on the
    Gaza bit?

  Waitress: Odessa laugh!  Alaska, but listen for her Wales.

  Gent: I'm not Balkan.  Just put a Cuba sugar in my Java.

  Waitress: Don't you be Sicily, big boy. Sweden it yourself.  I'm only
    here to Serbia.

  Gent: Denmark my check and call the Bosphorus, Egypt me.  There's an
    Eire.  I hope he'll Kenya.  I don't Bolivia know who I am!

  Waitress: Canada noise!  I don't Caribean.  You sure Ararat!

  Gent: Samoa your wisecracks?  What's got India?  D'you think this
    arguing Alps business?  Why be so Chile?  Be Nice!

  Waitress: Don't Kiev me that Boulogne!  Alemain do!  Spain in the
    neck.  Pay your Czech and don't Kuwait.  Ayssinia!

  Gent (to himself):  I'll come back with my France and Taiwan on
    Zanzibar is open.