If you say you like fudge, I say you also like lying. My Great Aunt Joan loves fudge. She's also a psycho who smells like formaldehyde and feet. What is fudge? Not chocolate, not cake, not mousse. It melts a mere three seconds after you remove it from those shitbag tins and wax paper. And the only place to "score" this annoyance is at a phony strip-mall Swiss chalet which also peddles candy apples and all sorts of other weird shit you don't want. Actually, I've never had fudge, but I bet all that stuff is true. Even the word chaps my rawhide. Stare at it for five seconds: Fudge. Such a fat little weasel. Sludge, grudge, pudge, fudge! What really makes me want to ride my bike into a steaming hot tub of toxic goo is when people use it instead of the word fuck. Just say fuck you fuck.
Thou must try the fudge before you pass judgement on it.
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