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.
  • Luckily, one of my stormtrooper squadmates was once a wine-taster in the court of Jabba the Hutt. He gulped down the poison poptarts with ease. Meanwhile, the rebels had surrounded
  • 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.


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