About that breakfast...

...that was yummiest vomit I've ever had the displeasure of believing someone would actually consider eating. It is a guaranteed ride to the E.R. where they'll IV you some anti-grease.

That table was a battlefield of cholesterol and sugar, a death pact on a plate, an edible apocalypse. Who wakes up and thinks, "You know what this day needs? A puddle of juicy motel food so deep you could baptize a baby in it!"

And the eggs? Perfectly prepared in enough butter to lubricate a small engine. Then there’s the pancakes drenched in maple syrup like some cruel experiment to see if human veins can turn into tree sap. Oh, and the entire can of jam... who brings that to the table like it’s a single serving? Psychopaths, that’s who.

The sausages knew they were the villains of this artery-clogging opera. That breakfast felt like shaking hands with the Grim Reaper herself, while she pats your back and whispers, "Enjoy your last bite, fool."

She wasn't the only one killing the old hippies that day.