What the fuck did you just cook for me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class at the Culinary Institute of America, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret kitchen raids on Al-Queso, and I have over 300 confirmed grills. I am trained in tortilla warfare and I’m the top searer in the entire US chefs forces. You are nothing to me but just another line cook. I will cook you the fuck up with seasonings the likes of which have never been seen before on your menu, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with cooking this shit for me on the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of baristas across the USA and your butcher’s shop is being traced right now so you better prepare for the corn, maggot. The corn that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your kitchen. You’re fucking up bread, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can grill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my cast iron. Not only am I extensively trained in wok and ladle combat, but I have access to the entire back house of the United States Mealrines Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass menu off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “cleaver” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking beef tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit curry all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking up bread, kiddo.