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.