Yeah, I put a fried egg on my burger; who the f*ck are you?

Close your eyes. Go ahead and picture a hamburger. Nothing more American than a hamburger. What do you see? Beef? Lettuce? A bun? Fuck you. You’re the problem. You know what I put on my burger? A fried fucking egg. I crack open a shell and fry an egg like it’s breakfast but then I put it on a hamburger because chaos is life’s only constant and I have become death destroyer of worlds. Now, what goes well with a hamburger? Fries? Chips? Maybe a small garden salad? Kill yourself. I make sweet potato fries. They are orange like prison jumpsuits and just as dangerous and problematic as America’s criminal justice system. While you sheep cut regular boring potatoes, I’m listening to sound of babies crying and slicing and dicing sweet potatoes like I’m the assistant manager of an airport Benihana’s. Sweet potato fries are nuts. They are sweet. They are salty. They are the fuck bois of side dishes; you know they are bad for you but morality is a Ponzi scheme. So, what are you going to drink with your depressing burger for babies? A Coca Cola? A nice IPA? I hate all of you. Liquids are for pussies. I’ve never had a drink in my life. I only consume solids because I don’t trust matter that takes the shape of its container. I am the Alpha. Society is the Omega. So what do I pair with my brave, flawed, and perfect burger? Open your eyes. Another fried fucking egg.