"Plop," the waitpenguin falls on his back in response to my order of 
Flipper on a Kaiser Roll.
    "What happened?" squeaks the waddling head waiter.  "Don't know," I say, 
feigning innocence, as fellow penguins drag the waiter away.
    Another penguin steps to my table.  "I'll have Charlie the Tuna, rare." 
This penguin keels over.  His flip flopping pen friends buoy him to the shade.
    Waitpenguins are cajoled, threatened, even pushed from behind to take my 
order.  I whisper my luncheon choices, made of my own invention to each 
waitpenguin:

    Flubber, spiked with garlic
    The Little Mermaid, on a skewer
    Shamoo the Whale, packed with veggies
    Calla, laced over a garden salad
    Ariel, arranged on angel pasta
    Sebastian, raw, pinchers secured
    Flounder, sprinkled with curry
    Scuttle, dipped in ground pepper

    In all, ten penguins lay stacked, in the shade.
    "I'm so sorry," I muse.  "Let me take your waitpenguins to the aquarium; 
it's the least I can do."
    I place them in the back of my trunk.  Drive to a back-street alley.  My 
friends rush out to help me line the penguins in a triangular position.  We 
roll a ball towards them, seeing how many we can fell at once.  What a game!
    Afterwards, the penguins say they had a jolly time and decide to quit 
their waitpenguin jobs.
    In time, I imagine that waitpenguins will be replaced with, well, maybe 
people.  And this game may be played by generations to come, called "Ten 
Pens," unless they don't know the history of the game.