Friday, January 13, 2012


Pรชche Poussรฉ

A friend went out to a fancy French restaurant looking for an amazing meal. Spare no expense.

“Please won’t you prepare your very best dishes for me, chef’s choice.”

Course following course. Every one, a triumph. Each, better than the other.

Finally, the dessert course . . .

The maรฎtre de arrives tableside with a cart on top of which is a pyramid of the most exquisite colorful ripe peaches precisely placed on a gold tray surrounded by pink roses. He is accompanied by a gorgeous young lady wearing a peachy pink outfit with a short skirt with lots of ruffles and petticoats.

The maรฎtre de selects the prime-most peach, inserts a fork into it and proceeds to peel the juicy fruit in one deft movement. Like a Frenchman who has been married many times.*

He then smugly bows and presents the peach to the diner with a grand flourish.

On cue the young lady lifts her skirt. It is clear to be seen that she is not wearing any panties. And, as smooth as a peach herself. The maรฎtre de gently places the juicy peach between her soft ingรฉnue thighs, whereupon she proceeds to wriggle and writhe, squirming and gyrating around the peach up between her legs. 

After quite a long time — and an ecstatically explosive, operatic climax crescendo [available on request for an extra charge] — she stops, and the maรฎtre de lifts up the peach with a grand flourish. He exclaims, “Voilร , monsieur, Pรชche Poussรฉ!”

Shocked, the man blurts out, “No way am I going to eat THAT peach!” WTF!

The maรฎtre de diplomatically rejoins, “Ah, monsieur, the peach . . . the PEACH you do NOT eat.”


* A friend of mine married a French girl. He told the story of meeting her parents, and being presented with the task of peeling a pear without breaking the peel. It should come off in one continuous piece. Presumably, a test to see how much care and attention he would devote to their darling little girl.

PS The fellow developed a taste for that dessert and now orders it regularly himself ...
PPS For an extra charge the lass will stand on a large gold tray onto which the flowing peach juices are collected and served as a kind of a chaser. 

[Wraunchy Wronski strikes again.]


2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I read a version of this joke decades ago in Playboy. My only quibble with it is that Google Translate translates "Pรชche Poussรฉ" as "Driven fishing". I don't speak French, so I can't speak for the accuracy of the translation.

David D. Wronski said...

Thanks for your comment. Take the quibble up with Google Translate. And, hey come on, it's a joke anyway.

Best wishes.

David