I went to dinner once with a critic, a cynic, and a mutant alien life-form from Mars. The critic stuck up his nose and said the food wasn’t good enough to be served to anyone with taste buds, and with a heavy sigh the cynic explained that chefs don’t actually cook for our pleasure or benefit but rather to fulfill their own selfish desire for success – but both men looked bitterly disappointed and wistfully hungry when in one foul swoosh of its crooked, wart-infested finger the mutant alien life-form zapped both of their plates to ashes.
She thought herself a very good mother and hated leaving the five of them alone for any length of time, even to go across the street to get food for dinner, for they were typical young’uns always looking for mischief, but what choice did she have?
He didn’t even brake when he saw her, just muttered “damn raccoon” as he sped off leaving her dying on the road, bleeding and broken, and her young babes hungry, motherless orphans.
It was his first time making dinner for me, and I thought he did a great job! Until later that night when I felt it crawling back up my throat.
Pat turned the gas on and used one of those long lighters to light it. A huge fireball shot out from the grill enveloping his arm and setting him on fire.