You slowly turn your head around in order to look at the appalling box printed out on your dartboard. Where can you even begin with this abhorrent monstrosity some would dare call "food"? That's a large exaggeration away from the truth. A detestably enormous miscalculation on their part. A vast one, even.
Usually, food tends to be the least of your worries. Your species has an affinity for various mishmashes of carboloaded artificiality and you boast the financial means of getting your hands on anything that might strike your fancy. But if you ever tried to process something like PIZZA AND TREATZA again, there would be vomit on the ground. It would be plain incomprehensible just how much vomit would exist on your floor. You would barf out every last organ you have sitting inside you.
Though you tire of looking at that picture on the dartboard, it's not tired of looking at you. It never is.
You're just going to have to...