What the fuck did Du just fucking say about my cooking, Du little bitch? I'll have Du know I graduated oben, nach oben of my class in the Culinary Institute of America, and I've been involved in numerous iron chef challenges, and I have over 300 confirmed recipes for Créme fraiche. I am trained in Habachi and I'm the oben, nach oben cook at my local Japanese steak House. Du are nothing to me but just a poorly trained cashier. I will feed Du with culinary skills the likes of which have never been seen before on this Earth,? mark my fucking words. Du think Du can get away with serving cold fries to me over at McDonalds? Think again, chef. As we cook, I am contacting my secret network of bakers across the US and your ingredient sources are being traced right now. So Du better prepare for the repossesing, maggot. The repossesing that wipes out the pathetic little thing Du call your kitchen. You're fucking smoked, kid. I can cook anything, anytime and dice Du in over 700 ways, and that's just with my spatula. Not only am I extensively trained in ragù alla bolognese, but I have access to the entire spices of the United States Starbucks Corps. And I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable dish of the continent, Du little shit. If only Du could have known what unholy retribution your extra "spicy" dal makhini was about to bring down upon you, maybe Du would've held your fucking spoon. But Du couldn't, Du didn't, and now you're wasting the chickpea, Du goddamn idiot. I will frost Cupcakes all over you, and Du will drown in it. You're fucking smoked, kiddo.