Tempus Fugit posted:

Kickin' Chikin' Quesadilla of the Pyschopomp

As you slowly come to, you realize you're lying flat. You don't remember lying down, in fact, you don't remember anything; your name, your life, nothing. You have no memory, no sense of time and no sense of place. The world is a uniform gray, with no horizon, no sky and no earth. You look up and are shocked to see the underside of a giant crow, jet black, wings flapping lazily. You are held gently in his talons, slowly going from nowhere to nowhere. You lose consciousness again. When you again wake, you are walking on a formless beach, gray ocean behind you and a large gray pyramid before you. The crow is gone and in his place, walking beside you, is a man with jet black wings and crow's head. He says nothing, merely gesturing forward towards the pyramid. Maybe a minute later, maybe a year, you enter the pyramid through golden doors. Proceeding down the long hallway, you struggle with your thoughts. You still have no name, no past, no existence. At the end of the hall the walls widen into an enormous chamber. There are no torches, no lights, yet the room is suffused with a golden glow. Standing in the middle of the room, with his hand on a small, low table containing a set of scales, stands a jackal-headed man. He turns to look your way and as your eyes meet, it comes back. All of it. A tidal wave of memories crashes over you, driving you to your knees. An entire lifetime experienced at once, and you begin sobbing. All of the pain and the hurt and envy, all of the joy and the love and the beauty and you can't stop sobbing. The memories accelerate, and begin to bifurcate. You see the memories of others, those you loved and those you caused pain, and sob ever harder at the comprehension. The logic and beauty of the universe is laid bare before you, and you understand it all. You see the gossamer filaments that bind all creatures. And you sob at the futility of it all, the inability of mortal creatures to understand. The memories begin to slow, flashing brightly across your vision in decreasing strength. The tide recedes. You attempt to stand, helped up by the crow-headed man. His stare is palpable and you turn to meet his gaze, his eyes bright shining featureless black orbs, also wet with tears. He beckons you forward, towards the jackal-headed man. You slowly make your way there, stopping at the low table with the scale. You raise your head and look the jackal-headed man directly in the eyes, and with a voice shredded with sobbing and rusty with disuse, but buoyed by the comprehension of the universe, you are able to croak but a single word: Quesadilla...
The jackal-headed man stares, perhaps a faint knowing smile playing about his muzzle, and in a booming voice declares, as he plunges his hand into your chest searching for your heart: with Donkey Sauce...

Served on Sundays only, Market Price.

Missing Name posted:

Where's that goddamn goldmine already

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

No Sleep 'Till Flavortown! $12.20

We were thirty miles past Reno when it all went to poo poo.
"Anthony!" Her voice cut across my brain like the razor-sharp talons of a thousand furies. "You frog-eating dildo gently caress! Guy got into the stash again!" In the rear view mirror I watched his head bounced around like an unruly musk melon, frosted tips puncturing the once-virginal oxblood leather seats of my '69 charger. His mouth was smeared with donkey sauce.
"If that doughball got so much as one drop on the carpet, I'll make stock out of his balls." She tried to cackle, but it died in her throat, and she went ghostly pale.
"Betty? Betty! God drat it woman this is no time to panic!" I grabbed her shoulder and shook her firmly.
"Those yankee bastards followed us!" She screamed. I adjusted the rear view mirror, only to find a wall of wanton violence quickly encroaching on the sovereign territory of my rear end. "I thought you said you'd ditched em!"
"I had! This smacks of the infernal. They've made pacts with unholy powers before, look!" I shouted, tapping the mirror. "Djinni!"
"Helicopter! And if we don't do something about it we'll never get to Curly's gold!" I reached for the mother-of-pearl cigarette case tucked behind the visor.
"Intolerable. I shan't allow it!" I stuffed a handful of blunts into my mouth and rolled down the windows. "Take the wheel, sister."

I climbed atop my crimson stallion, drawing a pair of snub-nosed saturday night specials from my snakeskin boots. I pointed at one of the helicopters, and beckoned it on.

Cheap Shot posted:

what am I doing with my time?

Wangsbig posted:

this is a pic of me coming back & enjoying all these posts

Wangsbig posted:

this is a pic of me coming back & enjoying all these posts

Concerned Citizen posted:

i ate ironically at guy fieri's times square restaurant. literally everything was terrible. it has its own brands of beer, which are nearly undrinkable. and then i buy some nachos and they're so loaded with meat that it felt ill several minutes in.

great experience, would dine there again

Feminition posted:

please describe the atmosphere and decor of the place in detail

Concerned Citizen posted:

i ate ironically at guy fieri's times square restaurant. literally everything was terrible. it has its own brands of beer, which are nearly undrinkable. and then i buy some nachos and they're so loaded with meat that it felt ill several minutes in.

great experience, would dine there again

Wangsbig posted:

this is a pic of me coming back & enjoying all these posts

Wangsbig posted:

make an image thats the exact opposite & it's me finding out this thread wasnt goldmined

SpicyMeatSandwich posted:

Dipped in Donkey Sawce bitch



Welcome to fuckin' Flavorton

Wangsbig posted:

make an image thats the exact opposite & it's me finding out this thread wasnt goldmined

Wangsbig posted:

make an image thats the exact opposite & it's me finding out this thread wasnt goldmined

WhiskeyPete posted:

circ dick soleil posted:

turds from a toilet

President Kucinich posted:

It's amazing, like nothing the world has ever seen before. His tongue is totally unnatural. If you could imagine a super dense latex glove with nearly infinite elasticity and teeming with tastebuds that seamlessly merge with whatever it comes into contact with, you can begin to understand what we're dealing with. It's like a dimpled fluid that retains cohesion. Using this fleshy tongue, Fieri has finally transcended the need to cook altogether; he has figured out a way to take all the meals he has ever consumed and synthesize it all into the cellular framework of this living mechanism within his mouth and he has figured out how to press this synthesized collection of taste sensations into any cellular structure it meets.

So the hostess brought us to our "dining area" which was nothing more than a series of barber chairs arranged in a circle, each of which leaned back against a sink basin. We all got situated and the hostess dressed us in our smocks before exiting the room. From the center of the ceiling, a large pipe dropped down and split off into a series of individual channels, one channel for each guest, and each channel ending inches from our mouths.

And through these channel pipes a hot moist musk bathed our faces. We were all extremely anxious bordering on scared. And then the meal started. Something with the texture of old hot chewed gum oozed from the pipe and touched my lips. I reflexively clenched my mouth shut tight, but this thing, this slime tongue, passed seemly through our clinched orifices. The hostess has told us to simply relax and to not fight it, and seeing as how this substance was like stiff butter melting into oil on the lips and able to slip inside regardless of what I did, I finally relented.

Guy Fieri's delicious slime tongue coated our insides thoroughly. Through or nasal and oral cavities, it filled and bonded to our stomachs, intestines, lungs, and invaded deep into our blood vessels and into our loins. It filled us like no meal could have ever filled us before. And the tastes were incomprehensible. We were all rendered totally useless, inconsolable, euphoric, and sexually aroused like never before. It was simply incredible. To taste not just a perfectly prepared raspberry steak within your colon, but to taste a hundred thousand of them, along with thousands upon thousands of other meals within your colon, and not just your colon, but within every part of your body, doesn't even begin to describe the experience. I would rather die than to ever part ways with Guy Fieri's delicious, perfect, slime tongue.

WhiskeyPete posted:

Tempus Fugit posted:

Welcome to FLAVORTOWN
*more flavor

I think the biggest lie on that box is "perishable"

President Kucinich posted:

Guy Fieri stomp kicked the basement door wide open. His faded Ed Hardy shirt with holes under the armpits bursting with pubes was covered in grease and motor oil, the smell of burnt diesel fuel permeated the room and bits of unidentifiable food particles filled in his goatee.

Loud thuds against debilitated wood boards and Guy's irregular heavy grunting broke the silence as he lugged a contraption up the stairs behind him.

"Hold on to your asses, you're all about to get flavored!" A joyous man having completed his life's work presents this grand invention to the audience in the room. "This here is the Bad Town Buff Beef Brawler, let me show you how it works!"

The contraption dragging behind him appeared to be an upside down lawn mower with a disassembled rusty dented oil barrel wrapped around the base forming a solid steel casing around the blade, a thick living stew surged within it. Guy Fieri struggled to maneuver the contraption between a tanning bed on one side and a muffler coming in through a busted hole of a piece of particle board covering a broken out window. On the other side of the window sat a diesel engine sitting cattywampus on half busted cinder blocks. Above the muffler were two large truck tires that counter spun against each other.

"First we hook up the flavor carburetor like so!" Guy grabbed the muffler end and slam punctured the side of the barrel with it, orange speckled foamy goop squeezed through the seams. "Now we turn on the flavor menacer!" unbeknownst to the people in the room, Guy Fieri's assistant, a drifter long ago excommunicated from his Amish community, had been watching us through the busted hole in the particle board; Fieri motioned his assistant to start the engine. Two dudes ripping furiously at pull cords brought the cooking behemoth to life. The lawn mower belched foul burnt fuel into the room and the diesel engine outside drowned out the panicked tones of the audience. Immediately, the wretched stew swirled, bubbled, and popped with diesel fumes and a whipping lawnmower blade. The crowd and all the walls were spattered with juicy sauce.

Guy Fieri had to shout over the commotion as he pulled some slab ropes of skirt steak out of a muddy plastic wal mart bag. "So we already got our broth ready to go, now we're going to friction heat shred this steak before adding it to the mix!" This fearless chef got right up next to the two vertical counter spinning truck tires and pressed the skirt steak between them. The tires vigorously rubbed the meat on both sides, tenderizing and shredding it. A lot of the shredded meat landed in the steel cauldron, and Fieri grabbed up the rest from the floor and threw it on in.

"Now you have several options at this point in the process. We could either let it reduce over the next day into a fine dense cake, but I'm a gumbo kind of dude so we're going to take this stew and pour it into our tanning pan!" Without bothering to remove the muffler from the barrel, Fieri wrenched the lawn mower cauldron end over end allowing the contents to spread evenly over the tube lighting. "Now we just close the lid and let it crust over." Guy grabbed the lid with both hands and slammed the bed shut. "In about an hour we're going to have some fine beef brawled stew."

Tempus Fugit posted:

Guyzymandias

I met a traveller from a bitchin land
Who said: "Two rad and basted legs of chickin
Stand in the bleu-sabi. Near them on the plate
Half sunk, a battered prawn lies, whose fried
And chipotle spiced crunchtasm and side of cole slaw
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these flavortown things,
The ring'd hand that fried them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Guyzymandias, Bro of Broskis:
Look on my works, ye doughy, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the frosted tips
Of that colossal douche, tasteless and bare,
The lone and level sauces stretch far away.

$19.99, comes with unlimited honey-glazed Tutanchallah Bread

Cucking Mama posted:

you're no ingwit