Good evening, you bloody bucatini brains. How brilliant! You’ve chosen to have this meal in a studio apartment, a place about as romantic as Guy Fieri’s compost bin. Well, don’t just sit there like a pair of deflated souffles! Let’s get on with this evening of passion.

I see you’ve decided to start with oysters. Pardon me, I smell you’ve decided to start with oysters. This apartment reeks of Sea World—if they’d never had the decency to send Shamu’s rotting corpse back out to sea.

I suppose oysters are a noted aphrodisiac, but even those could never overpower the terrifying sight of your lover’s haircut. Come on, look at this chap! He looks like an overgrown Welsh Terrier with a bald spot, and he’s got the personality to match. Relying on an oyster to get hot for him is like trying to use a pimple patch to cover a bullet wound. You're better off just letting yourself fucking die.

And look at this table setting, with these flimsy paper napkins! I think you missed the stop at ambiance and got off at abomination. According to the Geneva Convention, these plates are a crime against humanity. I could have you arrested on all seven continents—including Antarctica. Especially Antarctica.

Now, on to the main course! You say you got this filet of beef from Trader Joe’s? What did “Joe” trade for this? A possum he pancaked while drunk driving to a menage a trois with two of his cousins? I mean seriously, this meat is so rubbery, a yellow toy duck just tried to mate with it.

Though if I’m being honest, I’d rather watch those lovebirds go at it than see you bangers mash.

Speaking of which, as a side dish, we have some garlic smashed potatoes, which appear to have the texture, flavor, and consistency of the great pillars of Stonehenge. And that’s the last time I’ll use the word “great” today. Chefs, unless you’re planning to eat out a vampire tonight, please, for the love of God, actually put some garlic in the bloody garlic smashed potatoes! Actually, a vampire would probably quite like those.

Ah, thank god—a bread basket. Nigh near impossible to fuck up. But you’ve already demonstrated that you’re more than capable of achieving the extraordinary. Let’s take a look inside. We’ve got a baguette that was probably the real cause behind the French Revolution. If only the rebels had used this thing to break down the barricade, Les Mis would have been over in an hour. And by the way, if you tried to serve this at a restaurant… talk about Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.

Over here, we have—what’s this, a roll of some kind? Here’s a valentine for you: Roses are red, violets are blue, this heart-shaped ciabatta belongs in the loo.

Fucking disgraceful.

I’m not even going to bother with this creamed spinach from a can. My son could have cooked tastier greens—and the “son” I’m referring to is a fucking dog! Even Charlie, who puts the “poo” in “cockapoo,” could have used his stubby little paws to open a bag of spinach, add the leaves to a pan with double cream and a pinch of salt, and voila! A dish that doesn’t resemble the contents of the Wicked Witch of the West’s toilet the morning after one too many Ozmopolitans.

Well, let’s pour ourselves a glass of—what’s this? “Barefoot Bubbly?” I assume they named it after your boyfriend, given his penchant for second-hand Birkenstocks and visible callouses. You might as well be toasting with Mountain Dew—at least the yellow would match his teeth.

Cheers, you pathetic shitheads.

Shall we have some dessert for the table? Because the conversation is so dull I’d rather stick a thumbtack in my arse than listen to you two blab on for another minute. And why do you keep looking at your phones?! What are you, playing Wordle at Valentine’s Day dinner? Spoiler alert: much like your future together, today’s word is “BLEAK.”

Now I see why they say romance is dead. It died tonight. This is the funeral.

But never mind, don’t mind me. Let’s bring out the… chocolate-covered strawberries? Which I can only assume are covered in a fine pureed coating of your own excrement. I’m sorry my darlings, this isn’t a dessert course. This is a mistake.

Just please, for the love of God, tell me you used fresh strawberries.


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