With the sole exception of Louie Anderson, humans know what a salad looks like. Have you ever come across an assemblage of lush leaves, vibrant vegetables, tasty proteins, and a spritz of dressing? Perhaps a crumble of cheese, if the moon is full? Were you confused by this odd concoction? Did you wonder what it all meant?
That foreign mass is Sweet Lady Salad, you nutjob. She is a noble creature. I order her to create an illusion of healthful living, then drag her back to the privacy of my cubicle to drench her in ranch and bacon bits. Note her lack of potstickers, crusted cottage cheese, and Vietnamese glass noodles riddled with that little baby corn that somehow looks exactly like real corn.
By my pronouns alone, even a stark-mad maniac like you can infer how dear she is to my heart/stomach. Do you see now, you heartless bastard, that this “salad bar” hack-jobbery has besmirched her? BESMIRCHED!
I hate you deeply.
This is the Mos Eisley Cantina of salad bars
Let me point out, you knuckle-dragging [SWEAR!] bucket, that this silver vat is filled, not with romaine lettuce or cherry tomatoes, but with beef Stroganoff. Just a few doors down on this franken-bar, an unsliced meatloaf bathes in a grease puddle. The Mediterranean seafood delight lurks under a cloud of steam that smells like Lipton tea, failure, and unsigned trade agreements.
DELIGHT?! This is the Mos Eisley Cantina of salad bars.
At any point, was there a flicker in that vacuous cavity between your ears, when you reigned in your colossal overbite and recalled that SALADS GENERALLY AREN’T COMPRISED OF KUNG PAO CHICKEN AND COAGULATED STIR-FRY? At any point, did you consider breaking out some artichokes or olives or grilled vegetables to keep this Bunsen-burnered sh*t show from going completely off the rails?
No. You didn’t. This salad-pocalypse was calculated by a purebred sociopath. You probably want to tell me that “my salad can include anything you can imagine” but let me first tell you something, you dumpling-slinging dumbass. My imagination died the day I discovered I’d never work at Jurassic Park, because -- SPOILER ALERT! -- it’s not an actual place (I think?).