By Chef Boyardee
Why hello there. And how is everyone on this fine winter afternoon? I trust you’re all well fed and fighting the good fight like your old friend Chef Boyardee?
Yup, that’s pretty much how I spend my time nowadays. I just keep on keepin’ on, what with all these canned goods to cook and other dudes’ wives to fuck. Uh oh. Did I just let the cat outta the canned goods-funded bag?
Well, I suppose I always knew this day would come. The day when I, Chef Boyardee, the biggest swingin’ dick in the canned goods game, revealed myself as a plower of other fellas’ fields. A masher of their missuses. A hound for hitched honeypots.
If my meaty metaphors are over your head, allow me to spell this one out as clearly as I can: I’ve probably fucked your wife.
That’s right, your better half almost certainly knows Boyardee in the biblical sense. Yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Mrs. You once spoon-fed yours truly a bowl of beefaroni while I was meatballs deep in her lady lasagna. You see, when you’re in the nonperishable foods game, you quickly learn that nothing is beyond your grasp. Jonesing for some Chili Mac at 3 am? Grab that can opener, fire up that microwave and in 3 minutes flat that saturated fat stiffy you’re sporting will be well on its way to nonperishable nirvana.
Know how I know that? Because I’ve done it, whether I was polishing off some pre-dawn pizza twists or changing your lady’s life with a nonperishable poke in the poopshoot. Because I’m Chef Boyardee, the Monarch of Microwaveable Meatballs and the Depraved Deliverer of Droit du Seigneur.
But worry not, old friend. I have no shines on your main squeeze. There are simply too many damsels to defile for Chef Boyardee to tie his toque to a single one.
No, sir, your wife’s night of sloppy-joe-soaked ecstasy was a one-time thing. I don’t intend to dive back into that steamy saucepot. Once again, it’s all yours.
Of course, I could always double back and make your ball and chain burst once more. But I don’t have time for that, not with all these raviolis to can and other men’s partners to pile drive.
No, no, no. Your old lady and my throbbing, tomato-y tusk were simply two ships passing on one hot, heavy and nefarious night, one that your spouse will no doubt forever remember as the night she caught a hump from the Maestro of Macaroni.