"Holy shit. Holy holy HOLY shit. 64 grams of fat, 2,090 milligrams of sodium, and enough cholesterol to kill anything that's ever lived. The 'justification' is that you're supposed to eat shitty food in the morning, as it supplies you with a suitable amount of energy to get through the day. Unfortunately, Swanson's supplying you with enough 'energy' to get through a week, and even if the only other thing you ate after this breakfast was oxygen, there's still a relatively high chance that your ass will grow hands and tie your intestines in knots to prevent this shit from ever passing through. Really, really awful stuff."
"Usually, whenever something is cooked in this apartment, a fleet of cats line up waiting to see if they can snatch a freebie. As the breakfast became hotter and greasier, they all suddenly appeared from their mystery spots to see what they could con out of me. I smirked to the floor before throwing down the box chart featuring the sadistic nutritional facts about what was being cooked. Two of them did that screechy cat-scream thing, while the other two jetted right through the side wall, leaving two comical cat-shaped holes not unlike those typically found in Roadrunner cartoons. I know you don't believe that my cats can read, but they did the same exact thing when I threw Courtney Love's Vanity Fair issue down at them a few years ago. They're smart cats. Smart enough to avoid Swanson's and stick to the many roaches that stalk the halls of my frighteningly filthy abode."
"I pressed one of the home fries' middles with my finger, which led to it oozing out some kind of clear creme in a most grisly fashion. It couldn't have just been water, because water never stained my kitchen countertop before.
Little did I know -- the worst was yet to come. Compared to some of the other foodstuffs I was about to peel off this unholy tray, the potatoes seem like vitamins."
"I think the company line says that we're looking at bacon up above, but I can't seem to shake the idea that Swanson is trying to feed people horse scabs. You might consider me redundant for calling bacon 'greasy,' but the description has never been more warranted. In fact, the bacon is so greasy that the air in my kitchen started feeling moist and humid, as if the bacon was acting as some kind of organic air purifier that rebels by spewing poisonous pig gas into the room instead. I apologize for my unfamiliar tone in this article; the fumes really started to fuck with my head. Some of the bacon was opaque enough to serve as pieces of a church's stained glass manger, while others were absolutely transparent enough to serve as windows in the little tiny dollhouse I'm about to make out of the Hungry Man pancakes."
Just some funny stuff for all of you.. stay clear from this "meal", unless you want a triple bypass.