You know what would really hit The Spot this night? Some chunks. Boil me up a big bowl of chunks and I’m a happy camper. Or should I say chunker? I believe I shall. And why stop at dinner? Who is to say you can’t pack a satchel of chunks each day and have em for lunch? That’s assuming you aren’t like me and generally chunk-drunk by noon most days. And well gollybollywood they’re already frozen, put little sticks in them and have yourself a handy grandy chunky desert. Benjamin and his esteemed colleague Gerald are not the only ones with claim to the chunk name where frozen confectionery are concerned.
Do not try and unload on me any of what you call “nuggets,” “strips” or “fingers.” Those are childish, perhaps barbaric names for unaffiliated fragments of meat. These aren’t your average every day chunks scraped off the road, these are premium chunks scraped off a stain glass window. We grilled these esteemed distinguished chunks before we dumped them in a sack and froze em.

And florian helmberger do they taste big! These were guaranteed to cause synesthesia in laboratory animals. Now they can taste size, see sound, smell your deepest secrets and feel like wet stringy rubber in your mouth. Good night and good chunks.