And Now, A Collaborative Piece
“Where’s the lamb sauce???” shouted Gordon Ramsay, forcefully piledriving his Tinder match of the night. “You found it. You found…you found…FLAVORTOWN!!!” responded Guy, his moan slowly turning into a scream. Gordon’s Tinder match, fresh from the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives “Mac’s Diner”, in Des Moines, Iowa, was pretty exhausted from faking seven orgasms in a row.
“Can we discuss my career options now?” Guy hollered. “Not until my beef tenderloin has been sufficiently massaged,” growled Ramsay. Guy obligingly bent over again, ready to do whatever it took to be taken seriously as more than a meme. Gordon Ramsay took out his cutlery and proclaimed in a low voice: “It’s time to eat cake.” And by cake he meant ass. Guy wasn’t into that, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. And do it he did; he threw that pigskin all the way over those mountains. “I’ve spent years driving through American towns and cities, and it’s all led to you,” Guy purred, softly rutting against the Formica tabletop.
After days of lovemaking, it was time for the sinners to part ways. Gordon Ramsay couldn’t possible hang around a loser like Guy Fieri. He can’t even properly make a beef Wellington, his fillet steak an inferior product. Dreadful.
Guy went to one of those roadside hotels and sucked a cigarette like he was in a heist movie. What he was trying to elaborately steal? Gordon Ramsay’s love. “I guess it isn’t true, what Gusteau said in Ratatouille, that ‘Anyone can cook.’ The kitchen isn’t Disneyland like my goochpad isn’t a blueberry tart.”
Ramsay muttered about his failed apprentice. “Hey, big boy…” but no one answered. His spotted dick was getting blander than a dog’s dinner, and yet, in that moment, he desperately craved to have somebody, anybody, spit his boudin into a trash can. But, just then, he lifted his eyes to see, what? Alton Brown’s sumptuous buttocks. “I’d sear that with a smooth béarnaise!” Ramsay said. Shit, that was out loud, Ramsay thought. Brown’s gaze flashed to Ramsay, lust and cooking fumes filling the air. “See you next time on Good Eats,” whispered Alton Brown, rubbing himself and his new lover down with corn starch.
Far beyond the room where the two chefs prepared themselves for a ten minute steam, a dark shadow sensed the act that is about to occur. It reached down into the murky brine below, pulls out a nearly spherical apple, and began to rub it on his jacket lapel. “Allez cuisine!” was all that came before the shadow dissipated.