For lunch: Corn on the cob genetically engineered to resemble a computer keyboard in roller format -- cursor appears on the melt-buttery smeared plate.
Then I go and stand in the edible corridor, scratching savouries from the wall, desserts from the ceiling. Pickles drift down from the light bulb socket when the wall switch is thrown.
The waiters offer disparaging bouts of self appraisal between courses. This creates an atmosphere antithetical to tipping.
Spaghetti is wired to the mains.
Coleslaw is served on platters created from roadkill.
The Maitre 'D only visits a table when one of the bubbles disported from a centrally positioned bubble machine bursts against a diner.
It is an experience.

Hi my name is Dodge Punches I am an anchorite and my feet are inextricably tangled in clover, despite the fact that I live in a narrow stone cell, praying and dispensing wisdom. Two cygnets are stacking books on either side of me, just beyond my reach -- I am wearing stone shoes that are catved into the floor beneath the clover. Perhaps they are demons? I had an egg incubating in my jacket pocket and this morning it hatched into a horse's leg. Later I shall free it by lowering out of my only window and into the church below.

I am Dodge Punches and I meant 'carved.'