Okay. Sounds like you’re a chef. Are you ready to put your skills to the test?

Yes! Now, you will put your skills to the test! Prepare to enter the Fancy Fry-Off!

The Fancy Fry-Off is a cooking competition older than time itself. It was created during the birth of God, along with the other famous cooking competitions, Mouth Battle and Taste One Million.

So be it! Let the Fancy Fry-Off begin!

This is the enormous kitchen where the Fancy Fry-Off takes place. It is called “Le Mauvaise Fleur De La Bouche,” which is French for “It’s the kitchen.”

To close followers of the Fry-Off, this sacred ground is known simply as “Le Kitchen,” which is French for “Welcome to the kitchen, asshole. Hope you’re wearing your dad’s tiny kneepads, because it’s gonna be a bumpy ride, and on top of all that, bon appétit!”

Here you are inside Le Kitchen, one of the most sacred sites in all of Food. The crowd is cheering for you. They are going crazy.

The fans are going crazy!

“I love you, Famous Chef!” a woman screams to you.

“Teach us how to kiss your fingers!” a man and his brother-in-law bellow to you in unison.

“I think you are good like the murders I did!” a quiet man shouts to you.

One man in the front row pulls a big shirt over his head and wears it over his normal shirt. “Look!” he yells to you, “I put on a second shirt for you!” He must really love you.

A siren blares throughout the arena. From the far end of Le Kitchen, two enormous doors are swinging open.

You can see the silhouette of a mysterious figure standing in the doorway.

“Prepare to Meal!” the figure shouts.

“I’m going to commit acts of Flavor!” the mysterious man shouts.

The crowd goes wild.

The strange shadow man parades into the hot stadium lights of Le Kitchen and you can see who he is:

It’s Gloyfe, the greatest chef the world has ever known!

Of course you know about Gloyfe. He is the greatest Flavor Builder of all time.

“I am going to defeat your tastes using my famous Flavors,” says Gloyfe. He shows you his teeth in the threatening manner of a baboon.

“We’ll see about that,” says Gloyfe, and he laughs. “Oh, my God. Even my laugh tastes delicious. Taste my laugh.”

You open your mouth and Gloyfe laughs right into it. It tastes incredible. It tastes like a warm lemon that is dreaming about a crying spider. What a flavor.

“Of course it is,” says Gloyfe. “Everything I do is delicious.”

“No, my laugh is delicious. Maybe you just have a messed-up mouth,” says Gloyfe. “You have the broken kind of mouth that I would try to sell to an enemy of mine for almost no money at all.” He laughs and shrugs and yawns at the same time.

The Fancy Fry-Off is about to begin. A tense hush falls over the crowd. You walk over to your cooking station and get in Chef’s Position. Suddenly, you feel someone tugging on your sleeve.

Looks like this little guy was tugging on your sleeve! He looks at you with his happy face and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“Bornjarmbus, Senombre!” says the little chef in perfect Italian. “My name is Pimento, and I am your sous chef! I will do anything to help you create the dishes of your dreams. Please boss me around until I am dead. I think of you as my own child and as my God. I love you.”

Okay, the dish you’ve chosen to prepare is “Bowl.”

Pimento promptly hands you the recipe.

That’s so nice! Pimento can’t believe that you love him! He opens his mouth and makes a happy little noise that sounds like a bird rubbing its legs together. You’ve really made his day.

Suddenly, Le Kitchen goes dark, and a hush falls over the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms a voice over the loudspeaker, “welcome to the 2015 Fancy Fry-Off. Please welcome your host, Current President George W. Bush!”

The crowd goes bonkers!

There he is! Current President George W. Bush. He steps up to the microphone and looks out over the crowd.

“Who’s ready for the Fancy Fry-Off?” he asks.

The audience lets out a deafening cheer.

“You’re the prez right now!” a man in the back of the stadium yells.

“It’s 2015 and you’re my prez and I want to die in the jungle!” shouts the hungriest man in the world.

“I know that guy. That’s the current prez!” the whole audience whispers in unison.

“The rules for the Fancy Fry-Off are simple,” says Current President George W. Bush. “I will recite them now.”

“Tonight, two chefs will meet in the ring to hate each other and make dinner,” says Contemporary Prezboy George W. Bush. “Each chef will select one dish and present it to The Ancient Taste, the official Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off.”

“When The Ancient Taste has finished eating the dishes, he will let us know the name of the best chef,” says Ongoing Prez-Person George W. Bush. “That chef will be the Best Chef In The World and win the tremendous Grand Prize, while the loser will be declared The Worst Chef In The World and receive the Secret Punishment.”

“Those are all the rules for the Fancy Fry-Off,” says Right-Now U.S. Prez-Lord George W. Bush. “And now, we will meet our competitors.”

He points at you.

“This Nondescript Chef is one of the competitors. Amazing. And now, if you’ll turn your face to the big doors, we will meet our other competitor. Prepare for fanfare!”

Okay, let’s do pots and pans. If you want to defeat Gloyfe and win the Fancy Fry-Off, you’ll have to cook the most delicious meal that anyone has ever tasted.

You didn’t go to culinary school, so the only thing you know how to make is “Bowl.”

“Thank you for bossing me around, Master,” Pimento says. “Nothing will stop me from gathering this bowl for you. I will kill innocent people in order to fulfill my duty.”

Pimento waddles out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with the pots and pans.

The Temple Of Nice Tastes can be reached by crawling through the Oven Of Bad News.

You have entered the Oven Of Bad News and are walking down a long, dark passageway. On the wall next to you, there is an engraving of a chef climbing into a boiling pot of water and dumping sauces and peppercorns all over himself. There’s a little speech bubble next to his mouth that says “I’m going to feed myself to my dead wife.”

Truly, this is a foul and evil place.

Bad news: There’s a weird stone wall where the entryway to the oven used to be. It looks like you’ve got no choice but to go forward.

You walk down the passageway and emerge in a strange, endless hellscape. Before you stands the sinister Temple Of Nice Tastes. There are hooded monks milling around, chanting the recipe for something called Ankle Sauce.

These are the Monks Of Flavor, from the Divine And Fucked-Up Fraternity Of Taste. They are world-renowned for their extreme religious devotion to Flavor and for the fact that they are required to marry their own tongues in order to become monks.

You approach one of the monks. He coughs and a puff of steam comes out of his mouth. The steam forms the shape of the words “Various Recipes.” The monk blows a kiss to the cloud of steam that says “Various Recipes.” Then he turns to you and speaks. His voice sounds far away, as if you were having an underwater type of dream.

“What is the busiest Flavor?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s correct. Sour is the busiest flavor. It works so hard. Sour is the taste that comes from lemons, and all day long Sour is up in heaven making romance to God’s groin to ensure that God stays plump with sex.

“You are clearly a disciple of Flavor. Would you like to become a Monk Of Flavor?”

Another monk sidles up to you and smiles.

“Hi. My name is Every Film Ever Made. I’m the Supreme Mouth of the Monks Of Flavor, which is the highest rank. Very impressive. I couldn’t help overhearing that you are ready to join our order.”

“No, I am sorry. Car Accident is a very lazy flavor. Car Accident is the flavor that comes from two cars smashing into each other at huge velocities, and he spends most of the day sleeping in his nest and dreaming about taking a bath with his wife’s wife.

“You have failed the test. And now, I’m going to cram a punishment into your soul.”

“There can be no forgiveness,” says the monk. “There can only be punishment.”

The monk pulls a dagger out of his robes and plunges it into his own stomach. He dies in front of you. The other monks walk over to his corpse and eat it.

“The flavor of him is ‘Grapes And Tremendous Meat!’” one of the monks announces, his mouth full of the dead monk’s flesh.

“I agree!” the rest of the monks say in unison.

“Excellent,” says Every Film Ever Made. “That’s great to hear. In order to become a Monk Of Flavor, all you need to do is marry your own tongue.”

You maintain eye contact with the monk as you calmly have sex with your own tongue.

“I live for sex!” your tongue screams as you fuck each other using the 12 Pleasure Strategies we all learned about in school.

“Nice,” says the monk.

“Yes, for sure,” says Every Film Ever Made. “You must be very excited to marry your own tongue.”

“Okay, let’s begin the marriage ceremony,” says Every Film Ever Made. “Do you promise to grow old with your tongue and be in love with it until one of you dies, and also to spend a lot of time thinking about how your tongue is the Flavor Muscle, which is a muscle more important than your heart or even your inner-nozzle?”

“Okay, that’s the whole ceremony,” says Every Film Ever Made. “You’re now legally wedded to your own tongue, and you’ve officially become a Monk Of Flavor. Please spend eternity chanting the recipe for Ankle Sauce, the world’s greatest Flavor.”

Here you are in the Temple Of Nice Tastes. This is the house of Flavor, the gruesome God-Monster Of Chefs. If anyone can help you defeat Gloyfe, it’s him. You better call him.

A delicious fog fills the Temple. You breathe in the fog and are overwhelmed with its heavenly flavor. It tastes like a hardboiled egg that has been coughed on by the oldest dog in the world. Out of this tasty miasma walks Flavor, the hideous Mule-God who invented cooking.

“Flavor,” says Flavor.

“Things are bad, my child,” says Flavor. His voice sounds like wet napkins.

“Everything about my existence is extremely unpleasant. It’s bad being the living embodiment of Flavor. Whenever I say a word, I taste the thing that I’m saying. Like, if I say ‘shoe,’ you gotta know that I taste a shoe in my mouth. When I say ‘mouth,’ I taste my own mouth. Every moment is torment for me.”

Flavor cackles.

“If you want my nasty help, you must answer my Riddle Of Flavor. It is an ancient challenge that only those truly devoted to the Path Of Flavor can pass successfully. Answer correctly, and I’ll give you what you need to win the Fancy Fry-Off. Answer incorrectly, and the consequences will be dire.”

Flavor gets right up close to you, and you can see into his terrible delicious eyes.

“Here is my riddle about taste,” says Flavor:

“I’m the yellow sour man,
The lime-shaped imbecile who is yellow.
I grow on trees and I’m as sour as I am yellow.
I’m the yellow thing that is sometimes in the garbage.
I’m sour to the taste, and if you smell my yellow skin,
You will say, ‘This smells sour, and it smells yellow.’
Neil Armstrong found a pile of me on the moon.
It’s illegal to throw me at a firefighter, and, additionally, I’m yellow.
On top of all that, I’m like a soft yellow rock that is a fruit.
What am I?”

“Impressive!” roars Flavor. “Truly, you possess a deep devotion to Ingredients and are a chef worthy of my aid. Here is my secret for you. Heed my words and you may defeat Gloyfe.”

“When it comes time to present your food to the Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off,” says Flavor, “serve him a Regular Bowl. This is the type of bowl he loves the most. BUT, if you want him to truly go wild for your flavors, you must also make sure that a murderer coughs into the bowl. The taste of a murderer’s cough is a Flavor that the Judge is in love with.

“Regular Bowl. Murderer’s cough. Cook this dish, and you might win. Fail to do this, and you will suffer defeat.”

You crawl out of the Oven Of Bad News and return to your cooking station in Le Kitchen. You’re just in time to hear Current President George W. Bush shout, “Two minutes remaining!”

Oh, no! You spent too long trying to win the favor of Flavor! The situation could not be graver. You don’t even have your ingredients yet!

Suddenly, you feel someone tug on your sleeve.

“Bornjarmbus, Senombre. It is I, Pimento.” says Pimento. “I have gathered the bowl that you asked for.”

“You honor me forever with your kind words, Senombre. You are my precious daughter and my Strong Male God.”

“Pimento had to kill so many people to get this bowl for you,” says Pimento. “And now Pimento has a thirst for murder. Say ‘Bornjarmbus’ to the hot new murderer on the loose: me, Pimento The Murderer!”

Okay, you have gathered a bowl.

Awesome! It looks like you’ve finished preparing the dish of “Bowl.”

Do you want to serve your Bowl normal, hot, or regular?

Okay, you have chosen to serve a Regular Bowl. To serve your bowl in the Regular style, simply do nothing to your bowl.

Wonderful. You have cooked a Regular Bowl. Is there anything else you would like to do before you serve this Bowl to the Judge?

All right, you’re done! And it looks like you finished just in time. A loud bell starts ringing throughout Le Kitchen and the crowd starts cheering wildly.

“Time’s up, chefs!” declares Current 2015 President George W. Bush. “The Fancy Fry-Off has come to an end. If you will now turn your attention to the sky, the Judge of the competition is arriving to taste what our competitors have made.”

Out of a sky full of stars, the Almighty Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off is descending to the wild delight of all in attendance. “I am from every planet,” the Judge announces in a voice so loud it shakes the arena.

The audience bursts into rapturous applause.

“It is time for me to taste the Flavors that these chefs have prepared for me,” says the Judge. “First, I will taste the food of Gloyfe, the chef the whole world loves.”

You sarcastically kiss Gloyfe on the lips. His mouth tastes like a peppermint circus. It’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

“I know you meant that to be sarcastic,” says Gloyfe, “but I interpreted it as romantic. In fact, it was so romantic to me that I even have the well-known and controversial hard penis condition that accompanies intense sexual arousal: The Boner! Needless to say, your plan of a sarcastic kiss backfired. I feel very loved and very confident, and it’s all thanks to your kiss. Haha! Nothing can defeat Gloyfe!”

Gloyfe places an incredible feast before the Judge.

“Your Honor,” says Gloyfe, “today, I have prepared for you Sheep’s Noises with Vegetables and Broccoli, accompanied by Cones In Trumpesto Sauce. There is also a bowl of Dog’s Teeth, which has been heavily yelled at by professional football players.

“The soup is Thin And Horrible Broth with Sand, and if you find yourself hankering for something sweet, I’ve dipped a live crow in Diet Coke and trained the crow to stand very still and squawk like a maniac while you suck the Diet Coke out of his feathers.

“To round out the meal, there is, of course, a huge and welcoming pile of Larmers™ brand ham medallions. Please enjoy.”

The Judge eats every last bit of food. He belches and it sounds like a symphony. “Gloyfe,” he says, “this meal was superb. It was perhaps the greatest meal any chef has ever made. The Sheep’s Noises were exquisite, and the incomparable Flavor of the Larmers™ brand ham medallions reminds me why they’ve been ‘America’s Favorite Taste’ since 1928.

“I feel extremely bad for whoever has to follow you in this competition. Now! I require the food of the challenger! Bring me your meal!”

You place your Regular Bowl in front of the Judge.

“Ah! A Regular Bowl! One of my favorite dishes,” says the Judge. He bites into the porcelain bowl and chews it up loudly. Splinters of clay fly out of his mouth as he slowly eats your entire Regular Bowl.

The Judge finishes eating the Regular Bowl.

“Very nice,” he says. “I have now reached my final Judgment. After tasting both chef’s meals, I am pleased to announce that the winner of this year’s Fancy Fry-Off is...”

“Gloyfe!”

Everyone in Le Kitchen erupts in applause.

“I love Gloyfe more than I love my own arms!” screams a 2-month-old infant.

“My brain belongs to Gloyfe’s penis!” scream both your parents in unison.

Everyone starts chanting “Gloyfe! Gloyfe! Gloyfe! Gloyfe!”

Each “Gloyfe” is six hours apart. It’s a terrible cheer. Gloyfe smiles and laughs and blows kisses and generally just acts like a real smug idiot for the whole goddamned thing.

Current President George W. Bush steps up to the microphone.

“Gloyfe,” he says to Gloyfe, “as the winner of the Fancy Fry-Off, you will receive the highest honor imaginable: You will have a bucket of water dumped on your head, thus making you the world’s first-ever Wet Chef. May you wear your Wetness proudly, and may it serve as an eternal symbol of your culinary greatness.”

Gloyfe wipes a tear of joy from his eye as two men dressed in Darth Vader costumes carry out a Gatorade cooler full of water and dump it over Gloyfe’s head.

Current President George W. Bush now turns and looks at you.

“You’re a bad chef,” says the As-We-Speak Prez-Wizard. “You’re the worst chef in the world. Anyway, that’s it for the Fancy Fry-Off. It’s 2015 and I’m the President of the United States. Sayonara!”

The lights in Le Kitchen go out around you as the crowd goes home to dream about Gloyfe and forget about you.

“Bornjarmbus, Senombre. It is I, Pimento the murderer and sous chef. I am leaving you to go live with the Wet Chef Gloyfe in his castle in the Sex Malibu Zone. The Sex Malibu Zone is a zone that is like Malibu, except with tons more sex. Gloyfe lives there all the year round, and now Pimento will live with him too and help him craft his marvelous dishes and have sex and do murders.”

You bring your Regular Bowl over to a man who believes in ghosts. You proudly hold up your bowl for the man who believes in ghosts to look at.

“Nice bowl,” he says. “Ghosts are incredibly real, and while I’m sleeping they log into my computer and try to sell their own fingers online.”

Great job! You showed your bowl to a man who believes in ghosts, and it definitely improved the flavor of your dish, which is “Bowl.”

All right, you’re done! And it looks like you finished just in time. A loud bell starts ringing throughout Le Kitchen and the crowd starts cheering wildly.

“Time’s up, chefs!” declares Current 2015 President George W. Bush. “The Fancy Fry-Off has come to an end. If you will now turn your attention to the sky, the Judge of the competition is arriving to taste what our competitors have made.”

Out of a sky full of stars, the Almighty Judge of the Fancy Fry-Off is descending to the wild delight of all in attendance. “I am from every planet,” the Judge announces in a voice so loud it shakes the arena.

The audience bursts into rapturous applause.

“It is time for me to taste the Flavors that these chefs have prepared for me,” says the Judge. “First, I will taste the food of Gloyfe, the chef the whole world loves.”

You sarcastically kiss Gloyfe on the lips. His mouth tastes like a peppermint circus. It’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

“I know you meant that to be sarcastic,” says Gloyfe, “but I interpreted it as romantic. In fact, it was so romantic to me that I even have the well-known and controversial hard penis condition that accompanies intense sexual arousal: The Boner! Needless to say, your plan of a sarcastic kiss backfired. I feel very loved and very confident, and it’s all thanks to your kiss. Haha! Nothing can defeat Gloyfe!”

Gloyfe places an incredible feast before the Judge.

“Your Honor,” says Gloyfe, “today, I have prepared for you Sheep’s Noises with Vegetables and Broccoli, accompanied by Cones In Trumpesto Sauce. There is also a bowl of Dog’s Teeth, which has been heavily yelled at by professional football players.

“The soup is Thin And Horrible Broth with Sand, and if you find yourself hankering for something sweet, I’ve dipped a live crow in Diet Coke and trained the crow to stand very still and squawk like a maniac while you suck the Diet Coke out of his feathers.

“To round out the meal, there is, of course, a huge and welcoming pile of Larmers™ brand ham medallions. Please enjoy.”

The Judge eats every last bit of food. He belches and it sounds like a symphony.

“Gloyfe,” he says, “this meal was superb. It was perhaps the greatest meal any chef has ever made. The Sheep’s Noises were exquisite, and the incomparable Flavor of the Larmers™ brand ham medallions reminds me why they’ve been ‘America’s Favorite Taste’ since 1928.

“I feel extremely bad for whoever has to follow you in this competition. Now! I require the food of the challenger! Bring me your meal!”

You place your Regular Bowl in front of the Judge.

All right, it’s time to get a murderer to cough into your bowl. There’s got to be a murderer around here somewhere.

All of a sudden, you feel someone tugging on your sleeve.

“Bornjarmbus, Senombre,” says Pimento. “As you may recall, I, Pimento the sous chef, have recently become an out-of-control murderer who loves to kill. I would be honored to cough into your bowl for you. I love you.”

Pimento coughs his murderer’s cough straight into your Regular Bowl. You can tell that the Flavor of the bowl has been wildly enhanced. Nice job.

The Judge finishes eating the Regular Bowl. “This is...delicious!” he roars. “Do I detect the taste of a murderer’s cough? That is my favorite flavor! I love this dish! This is the dish of my dreams!

“I have now reached my final Judgment. After tasting both chef’s meals, I am pleased to announce that the winner of this year’s Fancy Fry-Off is...”

“Nondescript Chef!”

Hey! That’s you! You did it! You won the Fancy Fry-Off!

The fans are truly going berserk.

“That’s it! The Fancy Fry-Off is over!” yells Current President George W. Bush. “We have a winner! Gloyfe loses and this nameless freak wins! It’s 2015! I’m the current prez! I love the White House, which is where I sleep and achieve my vicious bathroom accomplishments. See you next year!”

You decide to wait around for Pimento to return. It’s extremely boring and nothing gets done. After several hours of staring into the ether, you feel a little tug on your sleeve. It’s Pimento.

“Bornjarmbus, Senombre. It is I, Pimento,” says Pimento. “I have gathered the bowl that you asked for.”

“I don’t care who you are,” says Flavor. His voice sounds like wet napkins.

“Everything about my existence is extremely unpleasant. It’s bad being the living embodiment of Flavor. Whenever I say a word, I taste the thing that I’m saying. Like, if I say ‘shoe,’ you gotta know that I taste a shoe in my mouth. When I say ‘mouth,’ I taste my own mouth. Every moment is torment for me.”

Flavor starts talking about something extremely important. You choose this moment to zone out and think about what it would be like if humans laid eggs.

It would be scary, right? Because once a pregnant woman laid an egg, she would have to hire a little private army, like, a little militia of full-blown soldiers with assault rifles, to guard her egg in its nest, because everyone would probably start breaking into each other’s houses to spray-paint bad words and Rage Against the Machine lyrics on each other’s eggs.

And also, probably, people would start hiding their eggs on floating aquatic nest-fortresses in the middle of the ocean with private naval fleets that have nuclear weapons and everything. And these would be normal middle-class families doing this, spending billions, if not trillions of dollars to protect their eggs from vandalism and from people putting backwards baseball hats on their eggs as a joke. It would be out of control.

And furthermore, once you start hiding human eggs in the ocean, for sure there’s going to be, like, 12 or 11 new species of fish that would evolve just to eat human eggs, and that’s just basic biology. And so there would be that whole nightmare to deal with too.

You conclude that it’s a really good thing that humans don’t lay eggs.

It looks like Flavor is just about wrapping up his whole thing right about now.

“Do what I just said,” he says to you, “and you might win. Fail to do this, and you will suffer defeat. Do you understand?”

Oh, jeez. Gloyfe’s food looks incredible! He’s just a stone-cold master. He’s making the fancy dish known as Sheep’s Noises, which is where he leads a sheep over to a boiling pot of water and has the sheep shout sounds like “Dandelion Science!” and “Lady Lady Lady!” into the pot. He’s going to boil these sheep’s noises and then serve them all glistening with Trumpesto Sauce, and it’s going to be delicious.

Shit.

“You see, your mouth,” says Gloyfe, “Well, it’s shit. It’s a Rubble Mouth. A real Pauper’s Tooth Purse. If I saw your mouth on a pig, I would say to myself, ‘That makes a lot of sense.’ Your mouth is proof that God exists, but, unfortunately, it is also proof that He’s a deranged idiot who’s just blindly smashing chromosomes together in the dark while shitting meteors into space.”

“Well, it’s your loss,” says Gloyfe. “The taste of my laugh is a true delight for palates large and small.”

It seems as if your only chance to defeat Gloyfe is to beg Flavor, Lord Of Taste, for assistance. Flavor is the idiot Mule-God of all the culinary arts, and if you can somehow win his favor, he can maybe help you defeat Gloyfe, who has clearly brought his goddamn A-game today.

Flavor dwells in the Temple Of Nice Tastes. Are you ready to journey there?

Warning! You do not have the considerable culinary skill necessary to prepare a Normal Bowl. We recommend you attempt to prepare a Regular Bowl, which is very different and far less challenging.

Do you still wish to proceed?

Warning! Preparing a Hot Bowl requires you to hold onto your bowl and jump into a volcano with it, thus heating it to the proper temperature. No chef has ever survived an attempt to prepare a Hot Bowl. We recommend that you prepare a Regular Bowl instead.

Do you still wish to proceed?