Quote:
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Originally Posted by kramus
As I read Tophat's post I could hear the chopping of onions, the thick sound of ketchup squeezing from a plastic bottle, the sharp *ding* of a frycooks bell . . . I had to quickly hit backspace before the eerie spell of his echoed words pulled me into some hell of condiments and crusty buns.
Please, Tophat - edit your post at least with a warning for those unwary perusers of this thread!
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T'is a perilous path we tread here. Indeed, the mad Scots/Arab Abul MacDonald was ground to bits in a bistro in broad daylight by invisible short order cooks.
But is it more dangerous to cry the coming of the Elder Edible ones? Even now, flying hither and thither I hear the sodden wingbeats of Mine-To-Go, the Fungi from Yummoth, porting disembodied stomachs to the Drive Through of Leng, where the Cashier in Yellow waits with the Open-All-Nightgaunts for the Orders for...
The Giant Hamburger...
Or is it more dangerous to keep mum, restrain this horrible knowledge, this medium rare gnosis of unspeakable savory flavor.
No!
I will not be silenced, though I am dragged through the greasetraps of Kadath where the Doles have all they can eat, and the wise Zoogs already know if you want fries with that. Nay! I will cry it aloud lest we all come to a very
greasy
End.