doo be doo | Chips

"Absolute corpse-shaggingly bad shitoffery," Roger remarked.
I thought it best to remain silent.
"Terminally-infected fucksac," he added.
I nodded and then tried to change the conversation, "But-"
"Fucking cancerous tramp droppings," he furthered.
In the end, I was forced to agree with him that the food was rather awful.
"I want you to do me a favour," he confided.
"OK," I said.
"I want you to go out and get me a bag of chips," he said, and then in a
loud voice so everyone could hear, "BEFORE I DIE OF FUCKING SWILL-POISONING."
It was the middle of the night, of course, and I had to wander around for
ages trying to find a chip shop that was still open. By the time I got back to the hospital, the chips were cold and I knew that would make Roger even more angry.
I couldn't find a microwave anywhere and I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to let my friend down, and I didn't want to give him cold chips either. I was just passing the High Dependency ward, when I had a sudden flash of inspiration and used a gastro-enteritis sufferer with a temperature of 107 degrees to warm them up.
Maybe that was why Roger was sick afterwards.

*(for the benefit of our American chums, chips are what you would refer to as fries - however in the UK these are considerably soggier and are a much cherished national dish.)