That's heinous, bro-man. Truly disgusting. Did you melt Jolly Ranchers onto spaghetti? Pull this out of a cat? Whatever you did, it is pretty fucking far from money.
This thing is the clogged toilet of Flavor Hell. This a prime rib slime crime and these homemade biscuits are in-to-the-edible.
Just get out of this business, because this is like a rusty shiv to the back in Flavor Jail.
You want me to eat this? I'll take my chances licking the gum blood off a pair of wax lips that someone with hep-C bit into.
That's a loser-loser chicken abuser right there, my man.
You got the zip of the barbecue sauce and then a texture like a bunch of pipe cleaners. I'm not sticking this in my mouth again.
Bro. Broooo. This is a capital double D Dirty Diaper somebody left on the hot highway to Barfachusetts.
There's the Holocaust and then there's this mole sauce and they got equal time at the Wannsee Flavor Conference.
This is the real deal Salmonellafield. Somebody call the Flavor Doctor, 'cause I want my stomach pumped.
A wasp flying into my can of cream soda and stinging the shit out of my mouth is infinitely better than taking another bite of your macaroni and cheese pizza.
Oh, no, with this pork again, sister. Fuck you. Are you trying to Flavor Murder me?
I'm glad Abe Lincoln was assassinated so he didn't live to taste this goulash.
You got the sun dried tomato. You got the tahini sauce. You got the relish. It's like eating what's left in the bed pan when a patient checks out of the Flavor Hospice.
I've tasted better crab in a West Virginia strip club. If I was walking through the woods and I saw a weird clearing and a big rock with a crabcake sitting on it, and then you were here to offer me your crabcake, I would eat the mystery one on the rock first.
Jesus Fuck, I can't take this anymore. My Taste Hole is hurting and I want to Flavor Die. Put me out of my M to the ISERY.
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