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.
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.
I love how he’s all “Oh, it’s Just a side,” completely missing the point, like women who think we’re offended by their public breastfeeding when in reality we’re just offended by their public children. You do realise you don’t actually need a side for pasta bake? You do realise you haven’t actually made pasta bake, it’s just white guy pasta and sauce? You do realise you already have several other sides as well? Baked beans, onion rings and fish fingers; it’s like the holy trinity of the church of wearing your mum’s underwear.
This whole dish reminds me of one of those suburban houses for poor people who think they are richer than they are. You know the type - door-to-door salesman who call themselves managers or franchise fast food store managers who call themselves humans with feelings - that kinda thing. Not the humble and modest abode of a working class family, but the self-entitled, disgusting, sprawl of chlamydia-esque housing that plagues those shitty suicide-catalysts they call estates. Always with those fucking eyesore extensions on those tiny blocks of land - why build these? If your house physically can’t hold any more people and you lack the mental capacity to design an appropriate extension that won’t descend your eyesore suburb further into ghetto status or the money to pay someone else to do it for you, then perhaps, just perhaps, it might be time to stop making children?
“What’s for dinner Kiara-Lynn?”
“Oh you’ll never guess, stuffed capsicum! I saw them on Pinterest during my daily pinning of pictures of cupcakes and unfunny internet jokes!”
“Wow that’s so ##hashtag kooky!”
“Totes, here do you wanna try?”
“Oh my God! I don’t realise it taste like shit because I’m a fucking idiot who would eat McDonald’s cheeseburgers and macaroni cheese all day if I could and I feel so unique because stuffed capsicum! Hang on let me insty it! Oh, I tagged you in as well and set the location to “Da Grrrls House”!!”
“Hehehe we are SO fucking indie it hurts!”
Stuffed capsicum.. I just… I’m not sold. I’ve never seen it at any non-Scoopon based restaurant - the whole concept just seems like some bullshit New Idea magazine-recipe for losers who’ve fucked up so many times in the kitchen they keep having to shoot from the hip at simple, kooky and quirky dishes hoping that this will be my dish. Kind of like people who slut around hoping to stumble into some sort of fantastic relationship where they don’t have to always cry in the shower after sex.
Why is it people with the worst taste in everything seem to love stuffed capsicum? Is it a sexual frustration thing - stuffin’ dat ol’ capsicum with painful memories of shallow penetration? Or is it some sort of curling-up-in-a-ball-like-a-coward metaphor because you forgot to achieve your life goals? “Life happened while I was making other plans!” you’ll say with a murmured giggle - somewhat ironically - but you’re not joking are you? You’re fucking ashamed of yourself. Well you should be, but you’re probably too fucking stupid to realise your children’s clothing line/scrap booking company/arts and craft stall was never going to cut it anyway. Not unless you married into money which will never happen because of Exhibit A above. Yes. Stuffed capsicum: the culinary compensation for people who’ve never had the guts for regrets.
Much like women who drink out of dick straws on their hens night, men who drink energy drinks don’t deserve to have opinions. ”Men” - heh - way too much credit. Boys. Little boys. What’s the matter you big baby; have a few too many after work drinks last night? Only got six and a half hours sleep? Make sure you sit around at work on your iPhone all day letting us know how hungover you are and over-credit your shithouse girlfriend’s sandwich making ability to offset the guilt of your (failed) advances on women last night. That’s right - I know what you’re up to buddy. The only thing worse than a guy who cheats is a guy who tries and fails and that’s all I see here. Or do you actually think you know what you’re talking about? Yes, you’re one of those guys who not only has no talon of critical thought, but thinks anything outside his comfort zone is just great and suddenly becomes an authority of whatever context in which he finds himself.
I fucking hate fairweather-experts. It starts with those idiotic cunts at University who constantly and publicly challenge the lecturer for some strange reason yet are nowhere to be seen by second year. They never leave your periphery; they’re the assholes at the bar trying to out-whiskey the bartender, horse-shitting on about some Jim Beam “Turbo Velvet Premium” batch or some shit. Oh, you just had a fucking orange infused ginger beer? Tell me all about how much you know about and love craft beer. The Melbourne Cup experts. The just-heard-nirvana grunge experts (usually girls), and the coffee experts, oh, the coffee experts and their fucking latte art, using bullshit terms that don’t mean anything like “It has a lovely aroma” or “Fantastic bitterness”. Nice work on finishing your first Bukowski - keep at the bottom-feeding dive bar alcoholic aesthetic and hide Mummy’s trust fund payments from your enlightened dickhead friends who think every book and piece of art is amazing merely because they stopped Instagramming themselves long enough to read this or see that. Frauds. You don’t have to like everything that is put in front of you – be more discerning and have some fucking character or you’ll wind up with an embarrassing girlfriend slapping together that sui-inducing bullshit above.
When confronted with most aesthetically disgusting things in life I always (for some reason) tell myself to give it a chance and I have no idea why I do this. A book is as good as it’s cover - period. Every ugly person I have met has a fucking ugly personality. Always. You can tell yourself this isn’t true but it is. Ugly people also like ugly things, from Blackmilk clothing and Frankie pull-out posters to words like “amazeballs!” and “awesomeness!” - I only ever hear ugly, fat or disgusting people say horrible words like “awesomeness” - why is this? It’s because it suits them, that’s why.
So with the thought of you and your slimy, greasy little fingers crafting this disgusting food portrait - preemptively giggling like a fucking dickhead in anticipation of the big Facebook upload - there is no way I can’t hate you and your entire family. What’s it even supposed to be? Can’t sleep, clown’ll eat me?
Those beady little sex-pest eyes and paedo-clause red cheeks. The almost literally eating shit grin… and that vulva-steak of a nose? Ugh - fucking incredible. I’d rather finger my own mother than touch it.
There is nothing worse than people publicly trying to bulk up, or get ripped, or whatever the term is for putting your body through extreme dietary and gym regimes to grossly improve your physique due to lack of self-esteem. Because let’s not beat around the bush here - excessive gym attendance is a very clear sign you aren’t having enjoyable consensual sex with other people. Gym is dessert for the 9 to 5 shit-sandwich life serves us all - what sort of person would look at those shirtless walking delusions at dance festivals and think “There we go, that’s where I need to be” and then waste precious leisure time achieving that goal? Are they fucking insane? Am I missing something - do you get a free car once you become ripped? Do you get an overseas holiday? They aren’t even sports stars or cage fighters or someone cool like Arnold Schwarzenegger or anything at all - they are just people that can waste a lot of free time.
If there’s one thing I hate more than (well, just as much as) some skinny virgin on the Facebook road to getting ripped, it’s a fatty trying to shed the pounds and letting us all know about it. I’ve never seen someone fat ever reach their goal. And it’s that perpetual chubby-fat that I hate the most - the subtle, overweight zone people remain in for most of their lives to give themselves something to worry their stupid fucking minds over. Every single fucking meal. Constantly bringing the world down with their: “Oh that’s a bit fatty, I’ll only have a little bit of butter on my 15th water cracker loaded with avocado and cheese” bullshit. Guess what Miss Piggy? You’ve been saying that for years and you’re still a fucking overweight sack of sadness so shut the fuck up with the endless ‘trim the fat off every (excessive) meal’ mantra and take your skin tight 3/4 cargo pants, beaded necklaces, Kimbra loaded iPods and skim milk whipped cream mocha-chinos and your raised by Today Tonight family off to Subway where you belong.
Ugh, I couldn’t leave it at that - Subway - what a shitty store. I’ve tried food from there several times and everything reasonable tastes like fucking plastic, except those ludicrous meal-on-bread style subs featuring nonsense like ranch sauce (which isn’t even a fucking sauce) or The Meatball Sub - the holy grail of food for morons - which is ideologically so disgusting I will never try it. And that flavour they pump out of the store, ugh, it’s so orange whore at a club obnoxious, it makes me sick.
Anyway, to finish of this long overdue post, here is the catering menu at the worst wedding in the world.
I hate it when young pregnant women eat like absolute pigs and post about it on the internet with this big “I can eat what I want, I’m pregnant” tirade. All those instagram snaps of them wolfing down blocks of cheap corner store chocolate and other stupid bullshit that pregnant women think they want or need but don’t because they are pregnant and no woman in her right mind would get pregnant under the age of 30. This isn’t a “craving”, it’s “hormonal hunger” and hormones aren’t real; they’re just pretend chemicals which produce pretend feelings that don’t really exist - like paranoia, hallucinations or kindness. A real “craving” stems from “addiction” eg needing to have a glass of wine before I have a shower in the morning.
Seriously? You’re having fucking kids and you think anything but sheer chance influences the sex of your child? I was fined $110 by some fat cop (named Ernie or Ron or some bullshit, probably a coward with a wife he hates) for smoking a delicious cigarette outside a café the other day and you’re probably getting paid to ruin a child’s life - ugh, what the fuck? Where’s the justice in that? I can just see you sitting around with your little support group/gaggle of young, mediocre and overweight mothers in Cue dresses over Sass & Bide jeans and diamante ballet flats at some shitty little hybrid all-white pretend-church at some washed out nothing-community hall with relaxed dress rules and pop songs and minimal god fear and priests that aren’t even pedophiles - like there’s even a point of being religious if you’re going to fuck with the staples.
I fucking hate the warped concept of beauty for these types of women – they’ll roll around public spaces like it ain’t no thang with this disgusting wet ponytails/ sweaty forehead combos and shave their cunts to look like 12 year old girls because that’s the extent of their ridiculous concept of positive body image –absolute maternal laziness attempting to satisfy the teenage pornographic pseudo-masculine desires of the fucking idiot hybrid boy-adults they attract.
So you know what? Suck shit fatty boomsticks. You made this bed and if you don’t feel ashamed for sleeping in it then why should I respect you? People who are comfortable in their own skin always have the most horrible skin.
Mmmm! Can’t wait to get together for some bore dourves with a bunch of cowards I hate made by some stupid bitch who can’t even spell. What’s the plate on the left - is that crab? Yes, I will eat your delicious crab. You have 100% proven to me you are definitely a fully grown adult that wipes after they shit and washes their hands during food preparation. Oh wait, that’s the opposite of what you’ve done and, funnily enough, eating your suicide seafood seems like an attractive option here.
Office kitchenettes are the most depressing places on earth. Honestly, what the fuck? All that fucking Blend 43. Blend 43 is a joke - if a morning coffee from a cafe is a “big warm hug” then Blend 43 is a slow, condescending, ear whispering handjob from your uncle. The fucking conversation, holy shit, the conversation. “How was your weekend?” - oh, you know, just sat around taking heaps of pills, woke up next to my ex-girlfriend, threw up blood in my purse, had a borderline domestic violence moment with the wife, tearfully wanked until 3AM - “Oh you know, just took it easy” - all lies, all big fucking lies. Why does everyone want to know what you’re eating all the time - “What’s thatcha eating mate?” - it’s a sandwich you fucking cunt, and it’s a fucking good one because I made it and I don’t think shitty tasty cheese, flavourless kindergarten sausage and jatz is appropriate for anyone over the age of nine. And a payrise? Somebodies looking for a payrise lol!!? I don’t understand how you even have a job and I hope you get fired. At least you could potentially get away with this shit on welfare.
