I'm the best.

My food is a shining personal achievement and yours has the appeal of an evil billionaire pissing on an injured, wide-eyed dog. Well, here's the skinny, you fatheads; my food is more exciting than the promise of consecutive blowjobs from 17 increasingly attractive women. 

If your food isn't grown 3 inches from your door in soil that's so organic that from dry-roasted peanuts a mighty oak would grow, then fuck you up for looking at it wrong; you don’t deserve food at all. You’re an enormous waste of time.

If you and your crop-top wearing, tattooed covered, Ray Ban sporting, SLR humping, vegan girlfriend didn't take 8000 hours of tandem pestle and mortar grinding, hemp oil frying, peeling, coring and art nouveau'ing to make your lunch right now today; then you ain’t eating food and you might as well drink anti-freeze. In front of your children if you have any.

Why should you care what I eat? Because I’m awesome. I’m the biggest shot they got. I’m a diamond that gleams like the world has never seen. This is the food you dream of and only I can make. I’m literally the greatest of the I Ams, and so is my food. 

Today I had Moroccan vegetable soup.

If you don’t know where Morocco is, load up Google, then take an overdose of Nyquil. The arduous journey between soup and bowl was facilitated by a can opener. As I looked around the office at all of the other suckers eating their joyless mainstream trash, I thought to myself, 'who could possibly care what they’re eating and why don’t they just jump in front of a train or something?' 

But when I looked down at my bowl, I knew I had something special that the entire world had to see.

Notice the skin-like coagulation floating on top of the soup caused by actual microwaves. That’s right, microwaves. We’re talking electromagnetic spectrum, not some dusty disc of meat in a capitalist 1%’er bread roll. 

And the crescendo, the soup sexfully drips from a silver spoon. Arousing as it is delicious. Interesting as it is thrilling. This blog is now your life, and so are updates on my unforgettable and important lunches. I’m not telling you where I got this soup, you wouldn’t appreciate it anyhow, tuck back into your bowl of banality that your ugly wife made for you, you shameful cretin.