There once was a dysfunctional fry-cook named Jeff
Who normally dreamt of becoming a chef.
But he lacked basic knife skills and knew not how to fillet,
Nor could he stomach the smell of Old Bay.
Jeff remained unexposed to pan-seared salmon;
But he could make soup to ward off his famine.
(He had heard of bouillabaisse while viewing a cooking show,
but how it differed from bouillon at its best, he did not know.)
He thought if one salty cube would add great flavor
To the beef barley stew he was eager to savor,
Then surely five cubes from a mullioned cabinet would be better!
(Perhaps be just the meal he'd fix for "the one" if he met her?)
To the stewpot Jeff added a fatty knucklebone of cow
Then dumped a can of tomatoes in by the sweat of his brow.
He stirred the soup. Tasted it. Then let out a faint whimper.
(Because, unlike Chef Ramsey, Jeff had no hurricane temper.)
"Good thing there's Domino's," he said out loud to himself.
"I think I'll order pizza, and invite friends to play Quelf
Or watch reruns of "Chopped" on the 50-inch projector
Because it's way easier than going to a stupid food lecture."
Jeff and his buddies gathered 'round the coffee table
In his battered blue bungalow to watch mindless cable.
The dysfunctional fry-cook tipped the delivery guy just one buck,
Apologizing, like always, for being simply "down on his luck."