Sharpen Your Knives! Can You Trounce The Worlds Greatest Chef In A Cooking Competition?

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Hello. Do you imagination yourself some kind of cook?

Okay. Clangs like youre a cook. Are you are willing to put your sciences to the test?

Okay. You died because you werent a chef.

Wonderful. You submerge because you werent be prepared to put your sciences to the test.

Yes! Now, you will put your abilities to the test! Prepare to enter the Fancy Fry-Off!

The Fancy Fry-Off is a cooking race older than epoch itself. It was created during the birth of God, along with the other famed cooking contenders, Mouth Battle and Taste One Million.

So be it! Let the Fancy Fry-Off inaugurate!

This is the enormous kitchen where the Fancy Fry-Off takes residence. It is called Le Mauvaise Fleur De La Bouche, which is French for Its the kitchen.

To close partisans of the Fry-Off, this sacred ground is known simply as Le Kitchen, which is French for Welcome to the kitchen, asshole. Hope youre wearing your fathers minuscule kneepads, because its gonna be a bumpy go, and on top of all that, bon apptit !

Here you are inside Le Kitchen, one of “the worlds largest” sacred places in all of Food. The bunch is cheering for you. They are going crazy.

The followers are going crazy!

I love you, Famous Chef! the status of women calls to you.

Teach us how to kiss your thumbs! a man and his brother-in-law hollering to you in unison.

I think you are good like the assassination I did! a quiet husband hollers to you.

One man in the front sequence gathers a big shirt over his head and wears it over his normal shirt. Gaze! he wails to you, I put on a second shirt for you! He has actually love you.

A siren blares throughout the arena. From the far end of Le Kitchen, two gigantic doors are swaying open.

You can see the silhouette of a mysterious digit stand in the doorway.

Prepare to Meal! the figure shouts.

Im going to commit acts of Flavor! the strange male shouts.

The crowd moves wild.

The strange darknes boy parades into the red-hot stadium light-footeds of Le Kitchen and you can see who he is 😛 TAGEND

Its Gloyfe, the greatest cook the world has ever known!

Of course you know about Gloyfe. He is the greatest Flavor Builder of all time.

I was just going defeat your delicacies utilizing my far-famed Flavors, says Gloyfe. He shows you his teeth in the threatening manner of a baboon.

Well see about that, says Gloyfe, and he giggles. Oh, my God. Even my titter savor delicious. Savor my laugh.

You open your mouth and Gloyfe titters right into it. It savours staggering. It savor like a very warm lemon that is daydream about a crying spider. What a flavor.

Of course it is, says Gloyfe. Everything I do is delicious.

No, my laugh is luscious. Perhaps you just have a messed-up lip, says Gloyfe. You have the busted kind of lip that I would try to sell to an adversary of mine for virtually no coin at all. He chuckles and shrugs and yawns at the same time.

The Fancy Fry-Off is starting. A tense stillnes falls over the crowd. You walk over to your cooking depot and get into Chefs Position. Abruptly, you feel someone tugging on your sleeve.

Looks like this little guy was tugging on your sleeve! He looks at you with his joyous look and you cant help but smile back at him.

Bornjarmbus, Senombre! says the little cook in perfect Italian. My reputation is Pimento, and I am your sous chef! I will do anything to help you establish the recipes of your dreams. Please boss me around until I am dead. I think of you as my own child and as my God. I love you.

Okay, the dish youve chosen to prepare is Bowl.

Pimento promptly hands you the recipe.

Thats so nice! Pimento cant believe that you desired him! He opens his opening and makes a glad little noise that sounds like a bird rubbing its leg together. Youve really made his day.

Suddenly, Le Kitchen leads dark, and a silence descends over the crowd.

Ladies and gentlemen, booms a voice over the loudspeaker, welcome to the 2015 Fancy Fry-Off. Please welcome your emcee, Current President George W. Bush!

The crowd croaks bonkers!

There he is! Current President George W. Bush. He steps up to the microphone and examines out over the crowd.

Whos ready for the Fancy Fry-Off? he expects.

The audience makes out a deafening cheer.

Youre the prez right now! a mortal in the back of the stadium yells.

Its 2015 and youre my prez and I want to die in the jungle! screams the hungriest humanity in the world.

I know that person. Thats the present prez! the whole audience whisperings in unison.

The rules for the Fancy Fry-Off are simple-minded, says Current President George W. Bush. I will perform them now.

Tonight, two cooks will meet in the ring to hate one another and stimulate dinner, says Contemporary Prezboy George W. Bush. Each chef will select one dish and present it to The Ancient Taste, the official Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off.

When The Ancient Taste has finished ingesting the foods, he will let us know the name of the best cook, says Ongoing Prez-Person George W. Bush. That chef will be the Better Chef In The World and acquire the tremendous Grand Prize, while the loser is likely to be swore The Worst Chef In The World and receive the Secret Punishment.

Those are all the rules for the Fancy Fry-Off, says Right-Now U.S. Prez-Lord George W. Bush. And now, we will fulfill our contestants.

He stages at you.

This Nondescript Chef is one of the competitors. Amazing. And now, if youll swerve your appearance to the big-hearted entrances, the authorities concerned will fulfill our other opponent. Prepare for fanfare!

Okay, tells do containers and washes. If you want to defeat Gloyfe and triumph the Fancy Fry-Off, youll have to concoct the most delicious banquet that anyone has ever tasted.

You didnt go to culinary academy, so the only thing you know how to establish is Bowl.

Thank you for bossing me around, Master, Pimento says. Nothing will stop me from reaping this bowl for you. I will kill innocent people in order to fulfill my office.

Pimento toddles out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with the jackpots and pans.

The Temple Of Nice Tastes can be reached by crawling through the Oven Of Bad News.

You have entered the Oven Of Bad News and are stepping down a long, dark alley. On the wall next to you, there is an print of a chef climbing into a boiling pot of sea and dumping sauces and peppercorns all over himself. Theres a bit communication bubble next to his lip that says Im going to feed myself to my dead wife.

Truly, this is a contaminate and evil place.

Bad news: Theres a weird stone wall where the entryway to the oven used to be. It looks like youve got no choice but to go forward.

You walk down the aisle and emerge in a strange, endless hellscape. Before you hold the malevolent Temple Of Nice Tastes. “Theres” hooded monks milling around, singing the recipe for something called Ankle Sauce.

These are the Monks Of Flavor, from the Divine And Fucked-Up Fraternity Of Taste. They are world-renowned for their extreme religion devotion to Flavor and for the fact that they are required to marry their own tongues in order to become monks.

You approach one of the friars. He coughs and a puff of steam comes out of his lip. The steam forms the shape of the words Numerous Recipes. The friar blows a kiss to the cloud of steam that says Many Recipes. Then he grows to you and pronounce. His spokesperson chimes far away, as if you two are having an underwater type of dream.

What is the busiest Flavor? he asks.

Yes, thats chasten. Sour is the busiest flavor. It labours so hard. Sour is the savor that comes from lemons, and all day long Sour is up in heaven stirring woo to Gods groin is so that God stands plump with sex.

You are clearly a adherent of Flavor. Would you like to become a Monk Of Flavor?

Another monk slinks up to you and smiles.

Hi. My figure is Every Film Ever Made. Im the Supreme Mouth of the Monks Of Flavor, which is the highest rank. Extremely impressive. I couldnt assist overhearing that you are ready to join our order.

No, I am sorry. Car Accident is a exceedingly lazy flavor. Car Accident is the flavor that comes from two vehicles smashing into each other at gigantic velocities, and he expends most of the day sleeping in his nest and daydream about taking a bathroom with his wifes wife.

You have flunked the test. And now, Im going to cram a punishment into your soul.

There can be no forgiveness, says the monk. There can only be punishment.

The monk pulls a dagger out of his robes and dashes it into his own stomach. He dies in front of you. The other friars walk over to his corpse and eat it.

The flavor of him is Grapes And Tremendous Meat! one of the friars announces, his mouth full of the dead friars flesh.

I agree! the rest of the monks say in unison.

Excellent, says Every Film Ever Made. Thats great to discover. In tell to become a Monk Of Flavor, all you need to do is wed your own tongue.

You continue gaze contact with the friar as you calmly have sex with your own tongue.

I live their lives sex! your tongue shriekings as you fuck one another exploiting the 12 Pleasure Strategies we all learned about in school.

Nice, says the monk.

Yes, for sure, says Every Film Ever Made. You must be very excited to marry your own tongue.

Okay, gives starting the marriage ceremony, says Every Film Ever Made. Do you promise to grow old with your tongue and be in love with it until one of you dies, and also to spend a lot of epoch thinking about how your tongue is the Flavor Muscle, which is a muscle most significant than your heart or even your inner-nozzle?

Okay, thats the whole formality, says Every Film Ever Made. Youre now legally wedded to your own tongue, and youve officially become a Monk Of Flavor. Please spend immortality chanting the recipe for Ankle Sauce, the worlds greatest Flavor.

This is how you expend your next seven infinities: You become a Monk Of Flavor and wander aimlessly all over the Temple Of Nice Tastes singing the sacred recipe for Ankle Sauce. Every 6,000 times, you do a dreadful uncompromising kiss to your own tongue, to whom you are merrily marriage. You forget about the Fancy Fry-Off almost immediately. You vacate your brain to the Path Of Flavor.

Somewhere far gone, Pimento expends the rest of his life sought for you. A squid and a scuba diver ate him together while he is looking for you in the ocean.

Here you are in the Temple Of Nice Tastes. This is the house of Flavor, the horrendous God-Monster Of Chefs. If anyone can help you demolish Gloyfe, its him. You better announce him.

A luscious overcast fills the Temple. You breathe in the cloud and are devastated with its heavenly flavor. It savours like a hardboiled egg that has been coughed on by the oldest puppy in the world. Out of this savory miasma moves Flavor, the horrendous Mule-God who devised cooking.

Flavor, says Flavor.

Things are bad, their own children, says Flavor. His voice is just like soggy napkins.

Everything about my reality is unusually distasteful. Its bad being the living embodiment of Flavor. Whenever I say a word, I savor the thing that Im saying. Like, if I say shoe, you gotta are well aware that I taste a shoe in my lip. When I say mouth, I taste my own opening. Every instant is harassment for me.

Flavor cackles.

If you require my nasty facilitate, you must answer my Riddle Of Flavor. It is an ancient challenge that only those genuinely devoted to the Path Of Flavor can pass successfully. Answer correctly, and Ill give you what is required to triumph the Fancy Fry-Off. Answer incorrectly, and the consequences will be dire.

Flavor goes right up close to you, and you can see into his terrible yummy attentions.

Here is my riddle about savour, says Flavor 😛 TAGEND

Im the yellowish sour being,
The lime-shaped twit who is yellow.
I grow on trees and Im as sour as I am yellow.
Im the yellowish occasion that is sometimes in the garbage.
Im sour to the preference, and if you smell my yellowed scalp,
You will say, This smells sour, and it smells yellow.
Neil Armstrong noticed a batch of me on the moon.
Its illegal to throw me at a firefighter, and, additionally, Im yellow.
On pinnacle of all that, Im like a soft amber boulder that is a fruit.
What am I?

Impressive! roars Flavor. Truly, you possess a deep devotion to Ingredients and are a chef worthy of my assistant. Here is my secret for you. Heed my words and you may defeat Gloyfe.

When it comes time to present your food to the Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off, says Flavor, help him a Regular Bowl. This is the type of bowl he adoration the most. BUT, if you miss him to absolutely get wild for your flavors, you must also make sure that a murderer coughs into the bowl. The smell of a murderers cough is a Flavor that the Judge is in love with.

Regular Bowl. Murderers cough. Cook this dish, and you might win. Fail to do this, and you will suffer defeat.

You crawl out of the Oven Of Bad News and return to your cooking depot in Le Kitchen. Youre precisely in time to hear Current President George W. Bush shout, Two minutes remaining!

Oh , no! You expended too long trying to acquire the advantage of Flavor! The place had not been able be graver. You dont even have your parts yet!

Suddenly, you feel someone tug on your sleeve.

Bornjarmbus, Senombre. It is I, Pimento. says Pimento. I have amassed the bowl that you asked for.