Smell this. Now smell that. Now, get a load

Smell this. Now smell that. Now, get a load of this. What he was holding was unspeakable. Unholy, and fowl. He wafted its atrocious smell towards me with a white gloved hand.

"Sir, you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit," I reminded him. All these culinaristas are getting downright alchemical. He threw off the stinky Hamburger Helper glove and

looked back at his Hebrew National Frankfurt sous vide. "Good, these dogs will be done in another 4 hours." I spoke up again "Remember when we would just BBQ those?" "Filthy things

rolling around on the grill. Acting all tasty and everything." "Let's get the 8 hour pop-tart dessert started." I wanted to baste it every 30 minutes to be sure it was safe. No

body could eat a non-safe pop tart and then keep on living. Nobody. And so I basted every thirty minutes, occasionally petting the dog.

Eventually the dog got tired of being petted and went to eat some pop tarts. I never saw him again. I kept basting, sun glasses and all, ready to eradicate poisonous pop tarts once

for two. My blaster jammed! I knew I should've joined the Empire! My guns wouldn't jam all the time unlike this rebel equipment. Anyway, I still had to deal with poison poptarts.

the Alamo to simulate Texas's finest moment and afterwards to buy a couple of postcards for Grandma. Jabba, spared by the sacrifice of his underling, looked disdainfully at

the overwhelming amount of cheap merchandising that immortalised moments of historic significance and wept. All of the items from snowglobes to postcards was made by slave labour.