Confession time. I killed my diet the other night. I was walking home when I received a call from a beautiful dame. She asked me if we could go to the food carts in our neighborhood for dinner. I knew then and there it was time to kill. I put on my rubber gloves and took out my preferred instrument of death, a bottle of Heinz 57.
A gruesome spectacle. Greasy German food and beer splattered everywhere. I’m an animal.
I’ve started a scrap-book of the crime scene.
A bottle of fancy pants beer.
A chicken schnitzle sandwich and fries. Flash marinated in ketchup.
Spaetzle. Spaetzle is some sort of pan-fried pasta covered in mushroom gravy. It should be obvious by now that this was a hate crime.
German Cucumber Salad? Even a cold-hearted killer has a soft side. Just don’t call it a feminine side. I still have half a bottle of ketchup and I’m not afraid to splurt it.