'don't let me eat that' is going on vacation, mofos.

but don't worry. we'll be back may 23 with plenty of fuel for the food-berating fire. see you then!

don't talk to me, paella.

how is it possible that every word out of your mouth is some unfunny "joke" or one-liner, yet you're not funny at all, 100% of the time? you'd think that things would average out and you'd be funny at least some of the time but no. you're definitely not.

watch it, bananas foster.

come here, bananas foster. i want to punch you in the mouth.

learn how to communicate, fettuccine alfredo.

when we're having a conversation, i need some context about the shit you're talking about. john and lisa being at the same place as joe and lindsay means nothing to me when i don't know who those fucking people are.

who cares, crispy bacon?

your facebook status messages are out of control. updating your status every 15 minutes with cryptic passive aggressive half poems about the universe and fate and light and dark doesn't make me want to ask "what's wrong?" it makes me want to kill you. get over yourself.

do you want a medal, blow pop?

wow, so you cleaned the kitchen. amazing. a 3-year-old orangutan can do the same thing, and a 3-year-old orangutan doesn't even beg for praise afterwards. how does that feel, being compared to a 3-year-old orangutan?

what do you want, ice cream drumstick?

are you giving me a dirty look? or is that just what your face looks like? either way, look over there instead. you're giving me the creeps.