By: Ethan Dennis
Hi, how are you? Okay, you son of a bitch, check out this soup.
I made that.
In my crockpot.
And you’re damn well going to hear about it.
Ask me how easy it was, motherfucker. No wait, don’t, I can’t have shit all over the place when you crap yourself after finding out it took took only eight fucking minutes to prep.
Believe this: my soup makes The Chef’s Table look like a limp-dick TV tray. The secret? I let this shit simmer for eight hours to imbue it with maximum fucking flavour, you crumb. Yeah, imbues. It’s a gourmet term I have to use now that I’m basically Gordon god damn Ramsey.
I’ve saved shitloads on this fucking soup and it tastes like a California god damn dream. All it takes is planning a meal 36 hours in advance. I have to let you try some to prove it, don’t I? Fine, get a spoon, you rope-pushing cuck.
Oh, and pisshead? If you use the recipe, bring me some of your soup to try! Just kidding, I’ve got litres of this gourmet shit. Got a batch going right now that I’ll probably have to pour down the toilet. Yeah, my sink is broken, I think I poured too much expired soup down the god damn thing.
Speaking of Amy, did she mention me at lunch yesterday? Huh. Weird that you spent a whole motherfucking meal together and I didn’t come up once. Listen, you greasy asshole, next time just casually mention the soup so she knows I’m balling, capisce?
And tell her I signed up for those anger management classes, you infernal skunk.
No, yeah, I’ve got to go too. Keep soupin’, fuckboy. That’s my new catchphrase, do you like it? I– Ah jeez, he’s gone. God damn it.
