You like Krabby Patties, don’t you, Squidward? You enjoy the

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You like Krabby Patties, don’t you, Squidward? You enjoy the tasty pair of crisp, oiled buns speckled with sesame seeds. You like how easily your teeth plow through the soft, pale, salty, delicious buns into the thicket of foliage-like lettuce. Lettuce smeared with with a multitude of flavor-enhancing sauces, covered with thin tomato slices salted to perfection, lain atop a sheet of rectangular cheese…delicious, almost sourly tasty cheese. It’s a pleasure, a forbidden one—you don’t want anyone to know about your…secret desires, don’t you, Squidward? I know how deeply insane you’ll be drove if you last too long without the creamy, succinct, delectable compound of mayonnaise and ketchup—you love it, don’t you, Squidward? How it oozes out of the edge of the gently toasted buns? How it slathers the thick, crispy, dark slab of beef and makes the already incredulous star-burst of flavor even more advantageous and wanted? How the coil of thick, golden, crisp mustard distributed along with the creamy compound serves as a godlike, cosmically, incomprehensibly, massively heightened enhancer to the unbelievable taste? You enjoy the thick, jade slices of pickle slid tentatively within the toothsome depths of the tempting burger, don’t you, Squidward? It’s a godsend. A blessing. True evidence that some unfathomable deity lurks in the endless beyond floating shortly above our heads…how the celestial spheres must’ve cooperated and labored tirelessly together in order to craft and produce something of such work and solid, wholesome beauty. Of such inconceivably appetizing appearance. Of such warmth, enclosed within loaves of bread, sold for the market’s doing-’n’-price, and digested by those who sought and vectored the sandwich. Of such perfected, mouthwatering technique, made for our kin, blessed to our kinship, and crafted to the theology of our kinship.
You like Krabby Patties, don’t you, Squidward?
I know you do, Squidward.
I know you do.