YOU CAN'T UN-FRY THINGS

I wish I could un-cook things.  Once it's past that golden crispy stage, it's doomed forever. 

You can't un-fry things, Jerri.

Even when they're perfectly fried, somebody's always gotta go and ruin mine by eating theirs with ketchup, which may as well be poop, because I'm not touching it and can barely stand to watch people eat it.  That's not a tomato, I don't give a shit what Heinz says, they lie and probably hate Jews. 

Ketchup is the rotten poop that falls through the cages and lands at the bottom and gets collected to be served to you at Steak n Shake in individually-sized packets for your "convenience", even when you didn't ask for it because you know that the food heats up the packets and the ketchup vapors taint everything else in the bag, as well as the car and the rest of the universe, which includes the air surrounding my own precious ketchupless onion rings. 

But no one will listen to me. 

Don't even get me started on pre-made chocolate milk.  That's bloody cow juice in disguise from when their udders start to crack and bleed from those lovely mechanical milking devices.  Think about that next time your chocolate Chugs is dribbling down your chin. 

Chickens.  Oh my GOD, chickens are filthy creatures.  But I figure the filth gets plucked and skinned off and bled out long before making its delicious way into the Fry Daddy. 

Don't get me wrong, I love eating things that once had a face and all their byproducts, but I don't put anything in my mouth without rinsing it off and smelling it first, especially when I know where it came from. 

You can't wash ketchup.  And you can't un-fry things. 

Warmest Regards, 

Shrimp Tempura