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.