Around the time of his thirteenth birthday, Anon realised he was different. While walking to lunch with his best (and only) friend, Anon, a vicious group of girls descended upon them both, harpy-like in their stoicism.
“Are you gonna have another fedora-tipping party Anon? Can we come?” Still innocent and gullible, Anon invited them all to his house for “Pizza”3 the coming Saturday, not knowing that this would turn out to be a pivotal moment in man’s understanding of the male ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. Anon succumbed to a sudden, overwhelming sensation of existential quandary, and, moments later, he lay unconscious upon the floor, limp tendrils of tagliatelle hanging from his pockets, leaking creamy sauce. Far away, a saurian cackle could be heard, and a small, rat sounding voice squeaked, “The Jews did this”. The Lizardmen had claimed another

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Saturday night. Cover the wife in beef paste. Down a pint of cream. Snort a stock cube. There's no recipe really. Your choice.