Friday, February 14, 2014 Tuesday, February 4, 2014
No, none of these things, individually or as a whole, are “the best” and if you serve your food like most people serve animals then you aren’t allowed to even comment on what’s the best, or worst, or anything at all - what did you cut your tomatoes with, your fucking elbow? You’re becoming a food photographer as much as The Daily Telegraph is a source of news and that filthy plate makes me question whether you should be around animals.
I love this time of year, all the new years’ resolution dicks, uggh, their aspirations make me sick but oh their failures bring a thousand joyful smiles to the piece of shit that stares back at me every morning in the bathroom mirror. "But cooksuck they are just trying to better themselves, positive choices, nike free runs etc leave them alone" well to that I say if the discussion and discourse surrounding losing insignificant amounts of weight is dressed as life changing positive steps then we’re clearly having the wrong conversation. Read any given comments section in that menstrual cycle of an article about ‘borderline’ ‘Plus Sized’ models -filled with all those flies-to-shit opinions: “AS IF !! SHE IS HEALTHY AND BEAUTIFUL! THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY” like being called a plus sized model makes you inherently any less ‘beautiful’ than a regular model, or a tall model, or a short model, or any model or human at all - fuck, why is this the world? What is wrong with everyone?
Anyway, this plate of toddler food was from some fitness ‘bootcamp’ page; lots of bullshit about kale curing diabetes (don’t get me started on this) and various other health food company perpetrated lies about the nutritional and health perks of consuming their overpriced manure. Quinoa, kale, chia seeds, insecure boys and their fucking pre-king-hit protein mush/shakes, all of this shit - eating “Instagram food” makes your body skinny but your mind fat. I stare at someone drinking green juice and immediately think ”your personality is a big overweight piece of cellulite covered shit”.  You’re now worse than the previous greedy, mediocre and despicable human you once were, what, with this new sense of entitlement to this magical, wonderful life of pictures of your shitty thighs at the beach, the not-eating-of-bread (which is just fucking ridiculous) and these big old jogs - jog, jog, jog - what are you jogging from cunt?  The ghosts of your past?  They’ll fucking find you, oh, they will, don’t you worry about that. You can feel them in the breeze; I know you know, ambivalently dormant, waiting for your frivolous life of wanderlust to catch up with you. Suddenly, the lie that is your instagram account will crumble and fall apart - you’ll come jogging in to apologise to me in the pub: “Cook Suck! Cook Suck! You were right, I am a big fuck head, please can I have some of your wine?” and I’ll say “No! This is my fucking discounted wine! Go drink some more juice from a fucking jam jar you cunt!!” and kick you out of my beautiful castle with its fine steaks, delicious burgers and boutique beverages and you’ll have to march back to fucking Deception Bay, Holsworthy, Elizabeth or whatever piece of shit suburb you came from.

No, none of these things, individually or as a whole, are “the best” and if you serve your food like most people serve animals then you aren’t allowed to even comment on what’s the best, or worst, or anything at all - what did you cut your tomatoes with, your fucking elbow? You’re becoming a food photographer as much as The Daily Telegraph is a source of news and that filthy plate makes me question whether you should be around animals.

I love this time of year, all the new years’ resolution dicks, uggh, their aspirations make me sick but oh their failures bring a thousand joyful smiles to the piece of shit that stares back at me every morning in the bathroom mirror. "But cooksuck they are just trying to better themselves, positive choices, nike free runs etc leave them alone" well to that I say if the discussion and discourse surrounding losing insignificant amounts of weight is dressed as life changing positive steps then we’re clearly having the wrong conversation. Read any given comments section in that menstrual cycle of an article about ‘borderline’ ‘Plus Sized’ models -filled with all those flies-to-shit opinions: “AS IF !! SHE IS HEALTHY AND BEAUTIFUL! THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY” like being called a plus sized model makes you inherently any less ‘beautiful’ than a regular model, or a tall model, or a short model, or any model or human at all - fuck, why is this the world? What is wrong with everyone?

Anyway, this plate of toddler food was from some fitness ‘bootcamp’ page; lots of bullshit about kale curing diabetes (don’t get me started on this) and various other health food company perpetrated lies about the nutritional and health perks of consuming their overpriced manure. Quinoa, kale, chia seeds, insecure boys and their fucking pre-king-hit protein mush/shakes, all of this shit - eating “Instagram food” makes your body skinny but your mind fat. I stare at someone drinking green juice and immediately think ”your personality is a big overweight piece of cellulite covered shit”.  You’re now worse than the previous greedy, mediocre and despicable human you once were, what, with this new sense of entitlement to this magical, wonderful life of pictures of your shitty thighs at the beach, the not-eating-of-bread (which is just fucking ridiculous) and these big old jogs - jog, jog, jog - what are you jogging from cunt?  The ghosts of your past?  They’ll fucking find you, oh, they will, don’t you worry about that. You can feel them in the breeze; I know you know, ambivalently dormant, waiting for your frivolous life of wanderlust to catch up with you. Suddenly, the lie that is your instagram account will crumble and fall apart - you’ll come jogging in to apologise to me in the pub: “Cook Suck! Cook Suck! You were right, I am a big fuck head, please can I have some of your wine?” and I’ll say “No! This is my fucking discounted wine! Go drink some more juice from a fucking jam jar you cunt!!” and kick you out of my beautiful castle with its fine steaks, delicious burgers and boutique beverages and you’ll have to march back to fucking Deception Bay, Holsworthy, Elizabeth or whatever piece of shit suburb you came from.

Friday, November 1, 2013
It’s not that people don’t respect insufferable overflowing toilets of human beings like the one above, it’s that they can’t. I’m not saying fat people don’t deserve to live, they might, maybe, what I’m saying is they deserve to be made fun of. Being overweight isn’t some unchangeable state, like being tall, baldness or having no parents - it’s a problem, and the only way someone will change is if other people make them feel bad about their problem. Having a supportive network of people around you who love you is complete bullshit and won’t help you in any way.  Have you noticed how all couples become fat?  Love produces fat, hate produces beauty, it’s as simple as that, which is why sites like Mamamia, DailyLife, all supermarket glossy bullshit magazines have no problem normalising by insulting skinny/healthy people as being unhealthy/on drugs/whatever but have no problem publishing self indulgent bullshit about being proud of your burden-on-the-medical-system body (like anyone gives a shit anyway). Anyway, there’s nothing like being brutally ashamed of yourself to help change your ways (or enter a spiralling pit of depression, whatever). So get a firm hold of that real ‘why should I even get out of bed?’ hatred of everything about your body, stop blaming the fat shamers (see my first sentence), and make a few changes. The way I see it, obesity is kinda like chlamydia, or pregnancy. You get it from carelessness and it’s relatively easy to get rid of. In fact, I made a little diagram.

(Oh baby, when someone you hate hits that middle intersection; crystalised happiness)
Anyway all of this is assuming being fat is a problem because unless you’re chronically obese it really isn’t.  Nothing exudes more chill vibes than a fatty boomsticks who doesn’t give a shit that they’re a fatty boomsticks, because then it’s not a problem, it’s a lifestyle, like drinking in the disabled toilets at work.

It’s not that people don’t respect insufferable overflowing toilets of human beings like the one above, it’s that they can’t. I’m not saying fat people don’t deserve to live, they might, maybe, what I’m saying is they deserve to be made fun of. Being overweight isn’t some unchangeable state, like being tall, baldness or having no parents - it’s a problem, and the only way someone will change is if other people make them feel bad about their problem. Having a supportive network of people around you who love you is complete bullshit and won’t help you in any way.  Have you noticed how all couples become fat?  Love produces fat, hate produces beauty, it’s as simple as that, which is why sites like Mamamia, DailyLife, all supermarket glossy bullshit magazines have no problem normalising by insulting skinny/healthy people as being unhealthy/on drugs/whatever but have no problem publishing self indulgent bullshit about being proud of your burden-on-the-medical-system body (like anyone gives a shit anyway). Anyway, there’s nothing like being brutally ashamed of yourself to help change your ways (or enter a spiralling pit of depression, whatever). So get a firm hold of that real ‘why should I even get out of bed?’ hatred of everything about your body, stop blaming the fat shamers (see my first sentence), and make a few changes. The way I see it, obesity is kinda like chlamydia, or pregnancy. You get it from carelessness and it’s relatively easy to get rid of. In fact, I made a little diagram.


image

(Oh baby, when someone you hate hits that middle intersection; crystalised happiness)

Anyway all of this is assuming being fat is a problem because unless you’re chronically obese it really isn’t.  Nothing exudes more chill vibes than a fatty boomsticks who doesn’t give a shit that they’re a fatty boomsticks, because then it’s not a problem, it’s a lifestyle, like drinking in the disabled toilets at work.

Thursday, October 3, 2013
You can tell a lot about someone by how they distribute their various spreads and preserves on particular types of breads - it’s almost like a self portrait. There’s people who work at cafes who do the above; this sparse, shitty, goalless existence, full of boundaries, unfulfilled, you know, all the kind of qualities that lead people into lives where they end up working jobs buttering people’s bread in cafes.
Then there’s people who go overboard on the butter but too easy on the spread, what barriers are you putting up buddy? It’s like those cowards at work who Alt+Tab between their “Work” fake Excel spreadsheets and their tiny little corner-of-the-screen personal fucking-around browser windows, like people around them don’t realise what they’re doing. Those really passive losers who order delivery 2-for-1 Scoopon voucher Thai (always Pad Thai, always delivery). There is nothing more depressing than mid-week 2-for-1 Scoopon Thai vouchers. There’s a reason why vouchers rhyme with couches; the people who use the former tend to make their most significant life impact on the latter. 
You know what? Fuck brunch. You can either have breakfast or you can have lunch. There should be no in betweens. Who can even eat when they wake up anyway? If you wake up and don’t feel like throwing up instantly or like you’re about to have a heart attack you’re either in some sort of steady relationship or stable career, have a healthy fitness routine, a loving family or some other awful bullshit like that. If need be, have a coffee, or tea, or whatever, keep it simple, do it properly and proceed with your day.
 Brunch used to be something that people with genuine hangovers or rich, attractive stay-at-home mums (not the poor ones, they’ve got chores to do) would indulge in. Now it’s just lazy Gen-Y pussies from the almost-inner-suburbs living these painful parody Frankie Magazine lives, making ridiculous menu alteration demands. Eggs Benedict, jam on toast, smoked salmon? Oooh, look at all the fancy options! Fucking. yawn. It’s not at all interesting, creative, nor is it pushing any sort of cullinary boundaries. Hence all the bullshit quirky plants on the shitty vintage step-ladder out the front, the appalling overpriced artwork for sale on the walls, and that fucking avocado on motherfucking rye, like rye is somehow objectively superior to white bread. You all think you’re absolutely killing it with kook with your mismatched plates & kerbside pick-up seating and that breakfast burrito is so zany and left-field and so representative of your alternative and diverse lifestyle; just so you.
But you do realise “being yourself” is a bad thing, right? It’s not eating some fancy-but-not muesli on a recycled stool made of gum-nuts down pumpernickel lane, nope, ever woken up covered in your own shit/vomit naked on the floor after drinking so much alcohol that absolutely every inhibition you’ve built over the years has been removed? That’s LITERALLY you being yourself. 
So in summary, please apply spreads to your toasted bread evenly.

You can tell a lot about someone by how they distribute their various spreads and preserves on particular types of breads - it’s almost like a self portrait. There’s people who work at cafes who do the above; this sparse, shitty, goalless existence, full of boundaries, unfulfilled, you know, all the kind of qualities that lead people into lives where they end up working jobs buttering people’s bread in cafes.

Then there’s people who go overboard on the butter but too easy on the spread, what barriers are you putting up buddy? It’s like those cowards at work who Alt+Tab between their “Work” fake Excel spreadsheets and their tiny little corner-of-the-screen personal fucking-around browser windows, like people around them don’t realise what they’re doing. Those really passive losers who order delivery 2-for-1 Scoopon voucher Thai (always Pad Thai, always delivery). There is nothing more depressing than mid-week 2-for-1 Scoopon Thai vouchers. There’s a reason why vouchers rhyme with couches; the people who use the former tend to make their most significant life impact on the latter. 

You know what? Fuck brunch. You can either have breakfast or you can have lunch. There should be no in betweens. Who can even eat when they wake up anyway? If you wake up and don’t feel like throwing up instantly or like you’re about to have a heart attack you’re either in some sort of steady relationship or stable career, have a healthy fitness routine, a loving family or some other awful bullshit like that. If need be, have a coffee, or tea, or whatever, keep it simple, do it properly and proceed with your day.

Brunch used to be something that people with genuine hangovers or rich, attractive stay-at-home mums (not the poor ones, they’ve got chores to do) would indulge in. Now it’s just lazy Gen-Y pussies from the almost-inner-suburbs living these painful parody Frankie Magazine lives, making ridiculous menu alteration demands. Eggs Benedict, jam on toast, smoked salmon? Oooh, look at all the fancy options! Fucking. yawn. It’s not at all interesting, creative, nor is it pushing any sort of cullinary boundaries. Hence all the bullshit quirky plants on the shitty vintage step-ladder out the front, the appalling overpriced artwork for sale on the walls, and that fucking avocado on motherfucking rye, like rye is somehow objectively superior to white bread. You all think you’re absolutely killing it with kook with your mismatched plates & kerbside pick-up seating and that breakfast burrito is so zany and left-field and so representative of your alternative and diverse lifestyle; just so you.

But you do realise “being yourself” is a bad thing, right? It’s not eating some fancy-but-not muesli on a recycled stool made of gum-nuts down pumpernickel lane, nope, ever woken up covered in your own shit/vomit naked on the floor after drinking so much alcohol that absolutely every inhibition you’ve built over the years has been removed? That’s LITERALLY you being yourself. 

So in summary, please apply spreads to your toasted bread evenly.

Friday, August 23, 2013
How about instead of thinking inwardly about your own little cowardly micro-reactions to various food additives and “colon cleansing” scams like Skinny Me Tea, you try thinking of someone besides yourself and your shitty family? Maybe try to not buy cage eggs, or don’t buy meat from supermarkets. They barely treat their own employees as human beings (actually they completely don’t - they’re literally replacing their staff with actual machines) so imagine the sort of bare minimum-standard shit they probably get away with sourcing meat? Preservatives fucking rule! Flavour enhancers are the shit!  Why would you want to leave them out - cancer? Bullshit! Cancer is caused by actual scientifically recognised carcinogens, you know, gamma rays, arsenic, asbestos, possibly even cigarettes; all that Fukushima shit, not red meat, toothpaste additives or artificial sweeteners. Google “carcinogenic foods” and see all the papyrus font logo bullshit for yourself, fucking incredible.
MSG is in your meal to make it taste delicious.  Oooh, your pansy little lips are tingling?  Your little fuckwit children are all excited because they drank some red cordial? Of course they’re going to be excited, you have just given them flavour and flavour is fucking exciting.  Kids should only be allowed to drink water and plain milk - possibly juice but the less flavour the better - make the little cunts brush their teeth beforehand just to be sure they don’t think it’s a treat.
I came across this picture today: do you realise what a fucking moronic statement "if you don’t recognise an ingredient, your body won’t either" is? It’s just food racism; this baseless fear of the unknown based on some bullshit you saw on TV or read on some kind of entertainment-news website.  Fuck, half of fools didn’t know what kale was 5 years ago. When you see sodium nitrate as an ingredient to something delicious like, hmm, all cured meats, it’s there to preserve your food and stop you from catching botulism and dying. Don’t understand what’s in that vaccine doctor death is injecting into your diseased little fuck of a child? There’s no conspiracy here; this, also, is to stop your child from dying. If you think otherwise it’s merely your incorrectly-inflated ego empowering you to believe you aren’t what, in fact, you are - a fucking idiot who doesn’t know anything.

How about instead of thinking inwardly about your own little cowardly micro-reactions to various food additives and “colon cleansing” scams like Skinny Me Tea, you try thinking of someone besides yourself and your shitty family? Maybe try to not buy cage eggs, or don’t buy meat from supermarkets. They barely treat their own employees as human beings (actually they completely don’t - they’re literally replacing their staff with actual machines) so imagine the sort of bare minimum-standard shit they probably get away with sourcing meat? Preservatives fucking rule! Flavour enhancers are the shit!  Why would you want to leave them out - cancer? Bullshit! Cancer is caused by actual scientifically recognised carcinogens, you know, gamma rays, arsenic, asbestos, possibly even cigarettes; all that Fukushima shit, not red meat, toothpaste additives or artificial sweeteners. Google “carcinogenic foods” and see all the papyrus font logo bullshit for yourself, fucking incredible.

MSG is in your meal to make it taste delicious.  Oooh, your pansy little lips are tingling?  Your little fuckwit children are all excited because they drank some red cordial? Of course they’re going to be excited, you have just given them flavour and flavour is fucking exciting.  Kids should only be allowed to drink water and plain milk - possibly juice but the less flavour the better - make the little cunts brush their teeth beforehand just to be sure they don’t think it’s a treat.

I came across this picture today: do you realise what a fucking moronic statement "if you don’t recognise an ingredient, your body won’t either" is? It’s just food racism; this baseless fear of the unknown based on some bullshit you saw on TV or read on some kind of entertainment-news website.  Fuck, half of fools didn’t know what kale was 5 years ago. When you see sodium nitrate as an ingredient to something delicious like, hmm, all cured meats, it’s there to preserve your food and stop you from catching botulism and dying. Don’t understand what’s in that vaccine doctor death is injecting into your diseased little fuck of a child? There’s no conspiracy here; this, also, is to stop your child from dying. If you think otherwise it’s merely your incorrectly-inflated ego empowering you to believe you aren’t what, in fact, you are - a fucking idiot who doesn’t know anything.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Cool #glutenfree tag, hopefully you successfully attract other like-minded people with gluten allergies who actively choose not to consume things they are allergic to and you can sit around and discuss a wide variety of life challenges like crossing roads when there’s no traffic or shitting when you’re above a toilet.  Pffft, it’s gluten, not fucking heroin - like it’s some kind of badge of honour to not consume something you’re not supposed to consume.  That is, of course, assuming there’s such a thing as a gluten allergy (there isn’t).  It’s like other pretend illnesses like asthma, there’s nothing really wrong with you - not like cancer or emphysema - you just have loser lungs - it’s more of a character flaw than an actual illness. Lactose intolerance?  Concentrate harder and digest that shit like a proper human being you incomplete fucking coward! 

Just thinking about clean eating, fuck, I just… I can’t even…. the main problem with #cleaneating is fuck off and die. It’s the official diet for those 3 to 6 out of 10 girls who forgot to develop a compensative personality.  The kind of girl that always “had a bit too much to drink last night #fml” but instead of tales of throwing up on a bouncer or smoking meth in an attic or whatever they’ll have slinked off early to have sex with their sober overweight ex, spending the next day in bed bitching on Facebook to their friends who don’t exist to bring them food while watching Honey Boo Boo or whatever STD-mascot-to-be people watch on TV these days while reposting pictures of macarons and Ryan Gosling oriented #fitspo content on Instagram for no reason.  At the same time clean eating is also a proxy for self obsession; unwarranted ego boosting, you know: “behold my quinoa, bow before my activated almonds, oh look, my incidental breasts, will you please validate the lie that is my social media existence and/or date/fuck me?”  

Oh and finally, guys who are into #cleaneating?  Kinda like:


Same/same

Cool #glutenfree tag, hopefully you successfully attract other like-minded people with gluten allergies who actively choose not to consume things they are allergic to and you can sit around and discuss a wide variety of life challenges like crossing roads when there’s no traffic or shitting when you’re above a toilet.  Pffft, it’s gluten, not fucking heroin - like it’s some kind of badge of honour to not consume something you’re not supposed to consume.  That is, of course, assuming there’s such a thing as a gluten allergy (there isn’t).  It’s like other pretend illnesses like asthma, there’s nothing really wrong with you - not like cancer or emphysema - you just have loser lungs - it’s more of a character flaw than an actual illness. Lactose intolerance?  Concentrate harder and digest that shit like a proper human being you incomplete fucking coward! 

Just thinking about clean eating, fuck, I just… I can’t even…. the main problem with #cleaneating is fuck off and die. It’s the official diet for those 3 to 6 out of 10 girls who forgot to develop a compensative personality.  The kind of girl that always “had a bit too much to drink last night #fml” but instead of tales of throwing up on a bouncer or smoking meth in an attic or whatever they’ll have slinked off early to have sex with their sober overweight ex, spending the next day in bed bitching on Facebook to their friends who don’t exist to bring them food while watching Honey Boo Boo or whatever STD-mascot-to-be people watch on TV these days while reposting pictures of macarons and Ryan Gosling oriented #fitspo content on Instagram for no reason.  At the same time clean eating is also a proxy for self obsession; unwarranted ego boosting, you know: “behold my quinoa, bow before my activated almonds, oh look, my incidental breasts, will you please validate the lie that is my social media existence and/or date/fuck me?”  

Oh and finally, guys who are into #cleaneating?  Kinda like:

Same/same

Friday, June 14, 2013
I suppose you think you’re just the kookiest couple on earth here - a McChicken?!?!! Whaaaa?! “Please tell me the significance of this,” said no-one, “Fuck your wedding will be terrible” thought everyone. I can just imagine the painfully forced, Frankie magazine levels of quirky wedding run sheet. Some fucking ironic “walk down the aisle” song, Nickleback or some shit; “We both HATE Nickleback hehehe won’t it be funny and totes orig!?!?” Some idiotic bar setup (read: not unlimited). Some fat religious mum who doesn’t drink or dance stewing away like a fucking cunt because her unemployable daughter can’t even give her the white, Anglo-Saxon Women’s day wedding she wants, sitting next to some pansy loser dad with poor whiskey knowledge.
Why get a ring if you clearly can’t afford it? I know you didn’t pay for this, it reeks of a fucking pay-day advance loan; you’re gifting your partner with debt, plain and simple.  It isn’t cute to patch together gifts on a budget.  It’s the thought that counts? Bah - thought doesn’t mean shit, thought when it comes to gift giving is like a fire extinguisher in a house fire. Once my ex girlfriend made me a handmade card for our one year anniversary with the actual napkin from the bar where we first met: "To the Man who took my heart, forever yours" in fine calligraphy, lightly scented etc. etc. bullshit after bullshit - where’s my fucking seaplane ride like I asked for? Not even a scratchie, fucking incredible, got rid of that dead wood quicksmart. 

Let go of your fucking past, seriously, don’t embrace it. You’re actually allowed to grow up a little - wearing Doc Martins and growing your disgusting bald patch hair long whilst wearing Lowes/Tarocash mismatched office gear at your shitty desk job is not embracing your youth in any way. You are dying, you are dying every second, stop pretending you aren’t you weird peadophile-vibing office embarrassment. I can just imagine your wife as well, probably into stockings with cherries on them, lots of red black and white; cheers for ruining those colours for  everyone by the way all you women-children of the world. You and your fucking arts and crafts and Lisa Mitchell and over the top love of avocado coupled with your unrequited and unreasonable desires to live in Paris. You’re still here, your dreams are unfulfilled and this lame proposal is the final nail.

I suppose you think you’re just the kookiest couple on earth here - a McChicken?!?!! Whaaaa?! “Please tell me the significance of this,” said no-one, “Fuck your wedding will be terrible” thought everyone. I can just imagine the painfully forced, Frankie magazine levels of quirky wedding run sheet. Some fucking ironic “walk down the aisle” song, Nickleback or some shit; “We both HATE Nickleback hehehe won’t it be funny and totes orig!?!?” Some idiotic bar setup (read: not unlimited). Some fat religious mum who doesn’t drink or dance stewing away like a fucking cunt because her unemployable daughter can’t even give her the white, Anglo-Saxon Women’s day wedding she wants, sitting next to some pansy loser dad with poor whiskey knowledge.

Why get a ring if you clearly can’t afford it? I know you didn’t pay for this, it reeks of a fucking pay-day advance loan; you’re gifting your partner with debt, plain and simple.  It isn’t cute to patch together gifts on a budget.  It’s the thought that counts? Bah - thought doesn’t mean shit, thought when it comes to gift giving is like a fire extinguisher in a house fire. Once my ex girlfriend made me a handmade card for our one year anniversary with the actual napkin from the bar where we first met: "To the Man who took my heart, forever yours" in fine calligraphy, lightly scented etc. etc. bullshit after bullshit - where’s my fucking seaplane ride like I asked for? Not even a scratchie, fucking incredible, got rid of that dead wood quicksmart. 

Let go of your fucking past, seriously, don’t embrace it. You’re actually allowed to grow up a little - wearing Doc Martins and growing your disgusting bald patch hair long whilst wearing Lowes/Tarocash mismatched office gear at your shitty desk job is not embracing your youth in any way. You are dying, you are dying every second, stop pretending you aren’t you weird peadophile-vibing office embarrassment. I can just imagine your wife as well, probably into stockings with cherries on them, lots of red black and white; cheers for ruining those colours for  everyone by the way all you women-children of the world. You and your fucking arts and crafts and Lisa Mitchell and over the top love of avocado coupled with your unrequited and unreasonable desires to live in Paris. You’re still here, your dreams are unfulfilled and this lame proposal is the final nail.

Thursday, May 23, 2013
The microwaved meat pie is basically the chlamydia of the food world; something lazy, disgusting pieces of shit with poor taste in what they insert into their body eventually wind up with.  Putting a meat pie between two slices of white bread, I don’t know how I could possibly hate you more?  You’re not even presenting some decadent bacon wrapped deep fried meat pie, it’s just between two slices of bread, white supermarket bread; the whole thing’s like being spit roasted by two uncles. You’ve actually failed with your overly ambitious mediocrity, like those guys who always try to raise unreasonable amounts of money for “Shave for a cure” or “Movember" charity events - mate, please, you ain’t hitting $5000 this year because no-one really gives a shit about you. Oooh, all your hair’s gone, one of the only things a person has that grows back, what a fucking disaster!  Call me when you amputate for autism you fairweather frauds.
Fuck I hate Movember - my most hated time of the year.  Self righteous charity fucks, bahhh, it’s just a gigantic month long wank of your throbbing charity erection, we all know you’re just trying to nail Rhonda from accounts. Fuck, people love to let you know that they are donating money to charity, they absolutely fucking love it.  Why do we need all this fucking charity money?  It needs to stop, I can’t deal with all these events - if you get cancer, game over, unlucky.  I ordered a steak the other day with a mustard sauce, and they gave me a chilli jam.  Same fucking thing, just deal with it and move on.  The chilli jam turned out to be quite delicious because I approached it with a positive attitude - maybe if you did the same instead of throwing all this whacky “Shave for a Cure” cash into all this crazy “research” then perhaps could enjoy things a bit more and stop looking so miserable all the time?

The microwaved meat pie is basically the chlamydia of the food world; something lazy, disgusting pieces of shit with poor taste in what they insert into their body eventually wind up with.  Putting a meat pie between two slices of white bread, I don’t know how I could possibly hate you more?  You’re not even presenting some decadent bacon wrapped deep fried meat pie, it’s just between two slices of bread, white supermarket bread; the whole thing’s like being spit roasted by two uncles. You’ve actually failed with your overly ambitious mediocrity, like those guys who always try to raise unreasonable amounts of money for “Shave for a cure” or “Movember" charity events - mate, please, you ain’t hitting $5000 this year because no-one really gives a shit about you. Oooh, all your hair’s gone, one of the only things a person has that grows back, what a fucking disaster!  Call me when you amputate for autism you fairweather frauds.

Fuck I hate Movember - my most hated time of the year.  Self righteous charity fucks, bahhh, it’s just a gigantic month long wank of your throbbing charity erection, we all know you’re just trying to nail Rhonda from accounts. Fuck, people love to let you know that they are donating money to charity, they absolutely fucking love it.  Why do we need all this fucking charity money?  It needs to stop, I can’t deal with all these events - if you get cancer, game over, unlucky.  I ordered a steak the other day with a mustard sauce, and they gave me a chilli jam.  Same fucking thing, just deal with it and move on.  The chilli jam turned out to be quite delicious because I approached it with a positive attitude - maybe if you did the same instead of throwing all this whacky “Shave for a Cure” cash into all this crazy “research” then perhaps could enjoy things a bit more and stop looking so miserable all the time?

Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Just look at this: Mi-goreng noodles, stir-fry and homemade potato chips - the holy trinity of fuck you.  Why are you eating Mi-goreng with another person? As a meal?  Mi-goreng is a got-no-money, life-aint-goin-too-good, don’t-tell-anyone-about-this-ever temporary life solution you wolf down alone in your underwear at 4 AM.
Attention amateur Iron Chefs: Stir-fry isn’t a noun. You don’t say “I’m off for some deep-fry” you say (cry): “I’m off to KFC for some deep fried chicken like the foul, biological countdown cunt I’ve gobbled myself in to”.  You’ve figured out how to make homemade chips (congratulations idiot) but still bulk up meals with instant noodles?  Is this some sort of abstract #YOLO to the rhetoric of life balance and stability?  Yuck.  And all lumped together on 2 plates - I hope your diet makes you infertile and your parents die without grandchildren.
I hate white people with their inherently racist and colonial woks, flipping around shitty cuts of rancid, on-special supermarket meat with poorly prepared ingredients to make these fraudulent “stir-fries” like they’re God’s gift to the fucking kitchen. Cool office tower middle-class Dad will refer to it as “Asian” like that even means anything. Oh really?  Where from in Asia?  "Oh, just a Robertson family fusion classic!" he’d reply with some shitty smug check-out-my-Rav-4 look on his face - fuck off you vague cunt, don’t taint a whole continent’s cuisine via your shitty personalised suburban cooking.  It’s always "MY" stir-fry; "MY" special little bullshit stir-fry that’s ALWAYS better than "that gook place around the corner" like somehow those "gooks" would have any idea.  It’s your stupid ego that makes it seem like it tastes good and I hope you fucking choke on it.

Just look at this: Mi-goreng noodles, stir-fry and homemade potato chips - the holy trinity of fuck you.  Why are you eating Mi-goreng with another person? As a meal?  Mi-goreng is a got-no-money, life-aint-goin-too-good, don’t-tell-anyone-about-this-ever temporary life solution you wolf down alone in your underwear at 4 AM.

Attention amateur Iron Chefs: Stir-fry isn’t a noun. You don’t say “I’m off for some deep-fry” you say (cry): “I’m off to KFC for some deep fried chicken like the foul, biological countdown cunt I’ve gobbled myself in to”.  You’ve figured out how to make homemade chips (congratulations idiot) but still bulk up meals with instant noodles?  Is this some sort of abstract #YOLO to the rhetoric of life balance and stability?  Yuck.  And all lumped together on 2 plates - I hope your diet makes you infertile and your parents die without grandchildren.

I hate white people with their inherently racist and colonial woks, flipping around shitty cuts of rancid, on-special supermarket meat with poorly prepared ingredients to make these fraudulent “stir-fries” like they’re God’s gift to the fucking kitchen. Cool office tower middle-class Dad will refer to it as “Asian” like that even means anything. Oh really?  Where from in Asia?  "Oh, just a Robertson family fusion classic!" he’d reply with some shitty smug check-out-my-Rav-4 look on his face - fuck off you vague cunt, don’t taint a whole continent’s cuisine via your shitty personalised suburban cooking.  It’s always "MY" stir-fry; "MY" special little bullshit stir-fry that’s ALWAYS better than "that gook place around the corner" like somehow those "gooks" would have any idea.  It’s your stupid ego that makes it seem like it tastes good and I hope you fucking choke on it.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Ever notice how all the miserable failures in life are constantly telling you about how much of a good day they are having, or about all their pretend achievements in life? Always the salad guys. Salad is the “I’m not racist, but…” of the food world - as superfluous as the photo album on Facebook of a newborn child - "Oh! Oh! I had a fucking child, everyone must see! Look at my child!  You must look at it!" - why are you doing this to us? The difference between eating a salad and not eating a salad is essentially nothing. You don’t earn any bragging rights for eating a salad - it’s like saying you took a shit and got it in the bowl. Most achievements people let you know about are essentially that - took a shit, didn’t fuck it up - "BEST WEEKEND!" - oh really? You had a good weekend? That must have been difficult considering most people have the freedom of literally being able to do whatever they want with their time - but they don’t do they? They spend their time attempting to jump some invisible bar life has set for them and salad-bragging is one of them.

Ever notice how all the miserable failures in life are constantly telling you about how much of a good day they are having, or about all their pretend achievements in life? Always the salad guys. Salad is the “I’m not racist, but…” of the food world - as superfluous as the photo album on Facebook of a newborn child - "Oh! Oh! I had a fucking child, everyone must see! Look at my child!  You must look at it!" - why are you doing this to us? The difference between eating a salad and not eating a salad is essentially nothing. You don’t earn any bragging rights for eating a salad - it’s like saying you took a shit and got it in the bowl. Most achievements people let you know about are essentially that - took a shit, didn’t fuck it up - "BEST WEEKEND!" - oh really? You had a good weekend? That must have been difficult considering most people have the freedom of literally being able to do whatever they want with their time - but they don’t do they? They spend their time attempting to jump some invisible bar life has set for them and salad-bragging is one of them.