…or lack of. This isn’t school sport. This isn’t playing in the backyard with your friends. This isn’t a walk in the park. This is war, son. There’s no such thing as etiquette when it comes to nutrition. There is just you and the prize. What’s the prize? Glory (and a delicious melted cheese, tuna, avocado, mayonnaise and hummus sanger in your sweaty, salty hands), at any cost. Too many poindexters hold back with their pussy HTC sandwiches waiting in line to toast their malnutritious glob of wholemeal flaps. If any of you get in my way I’ll throw an elbow your way. Can’t throw a punch cause my hands are too busy lugging two solid #dirtybulking kilos of Manwich through to the press, so I’m gonna make do with elbows and verbal abuse. And that sign “This is not a grill”? Nah fuck that, I’m gonna grill anything I damn well please. I love to straight up grill half a kilo of grated cheese, don’t even care if it leaves a blackened skid-mark in its wake. Got to get all them macros in my diet if I’m gonna perfect backflips on my Vespa.
And you know what really gives me a big ol’ man-rection? A big, sloppy, juicy four layer cheesed-to-the-brim, triple-meat roll, toasted and in a bowl. Cause sometimes you can’t wait for the appropriate crockery, even if your mum’d be disappointed. Sorry Mama Paterson, but Baby Joely is in gorge-mode and not even a lack of plates is going to stop him right now. I’d eat out of a bloody mug if it were required. And sometimes it is.
Wanna lift your sandwich gains? Take a leaf out of Jardo’s book. The pioneer of the reversed, inside out pizza-wich. This hunk of a feed has so much nutrition for your gains that you’re actually in danger of morphing into Voltron and wielding your power sword around like the reckless unit you are #swagJolo. So, put aside your pussy ass sanger and cram as much carb-drenched food as you can in that press. It’s a tool, it has no rules. Manipulate it however you see fit and get h00g so you can rip out 200kg curlz n’ shit.