As a result of something he saw on the telly, JT now dines at my table in the personae of "the critic." As the critic, he speaks of himself in the third person and is a stern presence at the table, one prepared to rate his meal with exacting language.
I am nearly always castigated for my slow service and poor attitude. In my defense, I must note that the critic never pays his bill nor leaves a tip. Conveniently, the critic does accept whatever meal I set before him and, providing it is accompanied by potato chips, I receive stellar reviews. The critic offers them with a grudging generosity. He wouldn't want me to get too big for my britches.
For some reason, I mostly find this amusing, though that is perhaps because I treat the critic with a manner of surliness that gives as good as it gets. Like most of JT's imaginary games, the critic will likely be short-lived. In the meantime, I am plotting my next move. I may dare to offer the critic a slice of peach with his standard chips. My reviews will surely suffer, but, as they say, if you can't take the heat, one should get out of the kitchen.