Master of the game

my brother

signed by squish <3

cheater.

What the ♥♥♥♥ did you just ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ say about me, you little pile of potatoes with gravy on top? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Culinary College, and I’ve been involved in numerous Thanksgiving dinners with conservative family, and I have had over 300 confirmed political arguments over food. I am trained in turkey warfare and I’m the top gravy man in the entire US armed commissary. You are nothing to me but just another mouth. I will feed you the ♥♥♥♥ out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ words. You think you can get away with saying that ♥♥♥♥ to me over the dinner table? Think again, and stuff it. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of chefs across the

USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, you honey-baked ham. The cranberry storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your dinner. You’re ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ full, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can feed you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare slow-cooker. Not only am I extensively trained in green bean casserole, but I have access to the entire spice rack and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your food-coma ass off the face of the continent, you little piece of pumpkin pie. If only you could have known what caloric retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your famished tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ guest at my dinner table. I will cram furiously prepared food all down your throat and you will drown in it. You’re ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ delighted, kiddo.