I’m the Ice Cream Machine from Chopped and I Will F*ck Your Shit Up

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ic dreams.Or I might go the other way and just be like “nah” to your liquid ass ingredients. Like, “fuck that, I don’t feel like freezing SHIT today — hope you want some runny rhubarb milk, ya dumbshit.”Because why are you even making ice cream? Haven’t you seen the show before? This isn’t Baskin Robbins. This is motherfuckin’ CHOPPED. You think Alex Guarneschelli wants to see you pour some shit up in me and walk away? There’s no technique in that. My girl GuarGuar not gonna stand for that fuckery.And I know exactly what’s about to come out of your shitmagnet of a mouth next:The blender “does precisely what I tell it.”“Perfect purée every time!”Of course that’s the line on that little bitch ass bitch. Fuckstick been sitting over in the main room, hogging cook station limelight, trying to su

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ck up to weak ass chefs for years. But we all know what’s up. You ain’t foolin’ Freitag with some shallow-flavored mush.A real chef would drop some flambé shit. Something more than pressing a button. Anti-griddle gets it. Bitch’ll punish you with some brick ass fruit shards if you don’t tend your sorbet. That weird little ice table’s cold alright — cold as a motherfucker if you try to take shortcuts.Why do you think there’s only one ice cream machine for two contestants, anyway? I ain’t here to work. I’m here to shatter hopes and kidney kick dreams. Drop the frigid fist of truth on douchecanoe pretenders like you.“But contestants have won with perfect ice cream,” you’ll pout. I couldn’t possibly be setting a trap, could I? I’m just a fuckwit ice cream machine, right? Keep underestimating me. See where that gets you, dickweasel.</article></body>

I’m the Ice Cream Machine from Chopped and I Will F*ck Your Shit Up

You think you’re hot shit because you made it to the dessert round on Chopped, huh? I’ve got you right where I want you.

I know you plan to let me churn away while you’re off prepping some shitpouch streusel. That may be how other ice cream machines roll, but not this bitch. As soon as you turn your back, I’mma start clogging myself with your ingredients. Just straight up polishing a giant slushy turdburger in my spout to crush your pathetic dreams.

Or I might go the other way and just be like “nah” to your liquid ass ingredients. Like, “fuck that, I don’t feel like freezing SHIT today — hope you want some runny rhubarb milk, ya dumbshit.”

Because why are you even making ice cream? Haven’t you seen the show before? This isn’t Baskin Robbins. This is motherfuckin’ CHOPPED. You think Alex Guarneschelli wants to see you pour some shit up in me and walk away? There’s no technique in that. My girl GuarGuar not gonna stand for that fuckery.

And I know exactly what’s about to come out of your shitmagnet of a mouth next:

The blender “does precisely what I tell it.”

“Perfect purée every time!”

Of course that’s the line on that little bitch ass bitch. Fuckstick been sitting over in the main room, hogging cook station limelight, trying to suck up to weak ass chefs for years. But we all know what’s up. You ain’t foolin’ Freitag with some shallow-flavored mush.

A real chef would drop some flambé shit. Something more than pressing a button. Anti-griddle gets it. Bitch’ll punish you with some brick ass fruit shards if you don’t tend your sorbet. That weird little ice table’s cold alright — cold as a motherfucker if you try to take shortcuts.

Why do you think there’s only one ice cream machine for two contestants, anyway? I ain’t here to work. I’m here to shatter hopes and kidney kick dreams. Drop the frigid fist of truth on douchecanoe pretenders like you.

“But contestants have won with perfect ice cream,” you’ll pout. I couldn’t possibly be setting a trap, could I? I’m just a fuckwit ice cream machine, right? Keep underestimating me. See where that gets you, dickweasel.