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. Vast, even.
Usually, food tends to be the least of your worries. Your species has an affinity for sustaining themselves on various mishmashes of carboloaded artificiality. But if you ever again tried to process something like PIZZA AND TREATZA, there would be vomit on the ground. It would be plain incomprehensible just how much vomit would come to exist on your floor. You would barf out every last organ you have sitting inside you.
You're getting tired of looking at that picture on the dartboard. It's not tired of looking at you, though. It never is.
You're just going to have to...