Ever since the day his wife chose a bear over him, Gordon Ramsay had mysteriously forgotten how to cook. Just last week, he can cut a corpse into pieces while blindfolded, but now he couldn't even fry a bloody egg. It had gotten so bad in fact, that he had trouble putting mac n' cheese in a microwave.
"Fuck me... How will I prepare for this year's Yulin festival!?" the chef pondered, then he peaked out the kitchen window, at the waiting customers, "Those China-people can get all cuckoo when they miss their daily serving of dog dumplings!"
Super Mario suddenly popped at his field of vision, jumpscaring him.
"You call this shit, Spaghetti!? It's too sweet!" Mario smashed the plate with rage. "This brings dishonor to my culture!"
"Oh you want ITALIAN spaghetti? I'll show you FUCKING Italian spaghetti!" Gordon dragged the plumber, by the crotch, to NASA and threw him into a spacecraft which blasted off towards the nearest blackhole and spaghettified Mario's sorry ass.
Regardless of it all, Gordon couldn't shake the fact that every dish he'd prepared ended up into slop starving bums couldn't even swallow, or could poison a full-grown great white shark. Gordon discussed whether it was time to throw in the towel. Perhaps his reign as Master chef was coming to an end. Continuing would only further disgrace his reputation, an embarrassment to the top dogs of the culinary world. He must accept that he's not Gordon Ramsey the chef anymore, but Gordon Ramsey the mere mortal. Unless...
Gordon went back to his bistro and made a phone call. His disgusting, British smile flashed as soon as he ended the conversation. He paced back and forth by the backdoor, eagerly awaiting the arrival of someone. When the knock he'd been waiting for came, he immediately swung the door open with such retard force that it detached from its hinges. Yet, there was nobody outside to meet him. Quite odd indeed.
"Excuse me?" A voice appeared in thin air.
Gordon looked puzzled, "What in Christ was that?"
"My eyes are down here, fucker!" The voice said.
Gordon's eyes led him to discover Remy the Rat below knee level. "Jesus, I asked for the headchef of Gusteau's... Why's there a rat at my bloody doorstep!"
"Hey, show me some goddamn respect, you red coat!" the rodent said, "Chef Gusteau's been dead since the last decade. I run the whole show now."
"You mean, those ratatouilles I've been feeding my children were made by a filthy rat!?"
"Damn straight!"
Gordon suddenly bent over like a sussy Muslim, "Oh great one, I beg for pardon. I didn't mean no disrespect! Your ratatouilles are godsent! Taste better than my wife's tea-flavored vagina! A spoonful alone even gives me flashbacks of my mother's ass!"
The rat pardoned Gordon and said, "I hear you're in need of my tutelage?"
"Yeah! I lost my talents, sensei... I can't even tell the difference between raw and well done! Please you gotta help me get back in the kitchen!"
"Why don't you identify yourself as a woman?"
"No thanks. I like to get into Women's Bathrooms the hard way."
"In that case, follow me... I'll have you flipping burgers in a jiffy!" Remy took a dancing step or two and hopped on the counter, ready to drop enlightening cooking knowledge. "Now, there's only one golden rule when it comes to cooking. Would you mind reciting it for me?"
Gordon just stood there, mouth drooling like an brain-damaged autist. He's as clueless as a man in his 60's seeing a gay parade.
Remy wasn't having none of this incompetence. "Really, bro!? This is basic shit, Cooking 101!"
Heavy pressure was put on the poor Englishman. Teary-eyed, Gordon gambled a guess. "M-M-Make your f-food with love?"
"Wrong, you dunce!" Remy slammed his fists. "Close... It's make love with your food"
"Make love as in like... sex?"
"Involving food, yes!" Remy replied, "Now take your damn clothes off. We're about to do some nasty food porn shit in this joint!"
"Well, if this helps me get my groove back..." Gordon bit nonetheless, playing Remy's game. He had no choice. How will he impress the bitches if he can't cook, them hoes like their men who can meal prep. He reached and grabbed the anal lube from the shelves, lube he wasn't even going to use but kept in its designated spot for moments like this.
"Don't waste your time on that manufactured bullcrap!" Remy slapped the lube away and took extra virgin olive oil instead, "We're sticking with the healthier variant, boy!"
There were knockings on the door.
Remy brightened, "Oh Goodie! They're here!"
"Sorry, who's here?"
Remy ushered in a wave of various personalities inside: Linguini, Guy Fieri, Uncle Roger, Sanji, SpongeBob, and Bob Belcher. All naked, hard and oily.
For Gordon, their presence was indeed puzzling. "Mind telling me why they're here?"
"Somebody has to man the kitchen while you're in lecture" Remy explained. Afterwards, he hopped on his slave Linguini's head and had him seize two ostrich eggs. "First lesson: Egg Omelette!"
"Uh... Shouldn't we shower first?" Gordon asked.
And then Remy said, "Nah... the kitchens meant to be greasy and gassy"
By Remy's orders, Linguini prepared his greasy ginger cook cock as Gordon Ramsay lay on his back, legs spread and ass gaped and raised. Linguini's hawg weighed just north of ten pounds and greasier than anything found inside the Heart Attack Grill. Gordon was then taught the secret to gourmet when ostrich eggs were inserted in his anus as simple as putting in dimes in a coin slot.
"URRRGH! This is fucking dry!" Gordon complained as he always did.
"Oopsie!" said Remy apologetically, "Linguini, the oil!"
"Righty-O, little chef!" saluted Linguini and poured the whole bottle of oil in Gordon's anus hole which made it easier for the eggs to slide down chef Ramsay's colon, filling him.
Of course Gordon moaned at this. He never felt this full before. Even skipping taking a shit for a week paled in comparison. However, it was not until Linguini shoved his girth inside his asshole that he truly grasped the concept of being stuffed.
Gordon screeched with glee. This will be the only time he'll be served raw and like it.
Linguini whisked the egg inside as fast as his cock let him operate. Even the shells were broken down into fine powder, showing Gordon that his penis was built in a way that his true strength didn't show on the surface. Linguini then moaned his loudass ecstasy in Gordon's ears like a pissed off dad teaching his son math.
As a natural reaction, Gordon Ramsay's body increased its temperature, slowly cooking the omelet.
"Uncle Roger! How's the fried rice going!?" Remy addressed.
"I was just getting to that, Chef!" Uncle Roger saluted. He called out to Guy Fieri, "Uncle Fieri, come come! You be my wok for this evening!"
Whether by accident or by design, Guy Fieri's asshole gaped by an unnaturally wide margin. It was already oiled up inside, glistening like a cave of glorious jewels. Uncle Roger then emptied an entire sack of rice inside, filling Guy's big bite. Water was poured in afterwards for it was required for steaming. But first, Uncle Roger had to dip in his finger to get the right volume, making up for Guy's missed prostate exam.
"First joint of da fingah! Excerrent!" said Roger withdrawing his finger. "All good, Uncle Fieri. Let it rip!"
"This is gonna be bomb-dot-com tasty, amigo!" Guy professed before his guts made a rumbling sort of noise. "Oh yeah! Here comes the taco grease!" Guy Fieri blasted a ripper, a fart that took Uncle Roger's tongue to a road-rocking trip to flavor town.
"Haiya! Uncle Roger so turned off, I put my third leg down from disgust" informed Uncle Roger. The smell took the romance out of everything.
Suddenly, Sanji teleported behind Roger, hand around his anime meatbar, "It won't be for long once I give you a stir, Unc..."
Without warning, Roger took the brunt of Sanji's angry penis sushi raw up his Wonton ass. "FUIYOH! FUIYOOOH!"
Sanji's cock was a real butterball. Uncle Roger experienced the explosive force of the buttfuck, decimating his fine China mangina with clean and economical blows. Sanji's sex was packin' some real heat too, seasoned with salt and pepper to taste, seeming to promise Uncle Roger potty failures. It was so spicy Roger could shit an organ. Follow some fifteen seconds, this seasoned porking made Uncle Roger regained his lost erection.
Meanwhile, Guy Fieri's loud fart brought the rice to a steaming boil. Guy's fart was also so drawn out that it went on long after the water dried up and the rice cooked. Acting on it, Uncle Roger and Sanji added peas, carrots and other ingredients into Guy's butt wok. Then the two chefs mixed the toppings together with their rock hard Johnsons.
"Holy Moly, Stromboli! I've been stricken with their chickens!" Guy Fieri's expressions were a mixed bag of emotions as his peers slapped their swords around in his rectum.
The homo duo of Roger and Sanji frotted wieners, making merry for quite a bit until they're pissing white—Well, change of plans, They're making risotto now.
"That'll put a kick in it!" Sanji pulled out and gave the dish a taste, which he did by licking his jap cock. "Something's not right, my chigga! It's missing something and I can't put my finger on it."
"I know!" Uncle Roger raised a finger before revealing any Asian's secret ingredient: MSG. After adding the said chemical, finally they got the flavor just about perfect. They then brought the Risotto to Remy for his approval.
The rat conducted his inspection, leading to him asking, "Why is it so brown?"
"Uhh... we used brown rice?" answered Roger in a slurred voice.
Remy shrugged. He couldn't care less what type of grain they used. It all about the presentation, and with the way the veggies were woven in properly, they could almost forget that this dish had been made in a man's asshole. Therefore Remy declared it ready for serving.
For the time being, tomfoolery was happening at SpongeBob and Bob Belcher's station. They're in charge of the dumplings. Bob Belcher had already stuffed his ass with dog meat days prior, so you'd know that they're good as cooked with all the farting Bob had been doing for the past week.
"Prepare the wraps, Mr. SquarePants. I can't hold it much longer" Bob enunciated.
"Aye Aye! Dumpling wraps coming right up!" SpongeBob brought with him his expertise from his work at the Krusty Krab and pinched the tip of his mustard-colored foreskin, stretching it some inches long across a cutting board. The square boy proceeded to slice it off with a knife, basically circumcising himself. But no worries though, he wasn't hurt by this, if anything, it's quite arousing. Besides, he can just regrow it back since SpongeBob can regenerate limbs. He made a thousand of these foreskin pieces before stopping.
"Oh, Mr. Belcher! The wraps are ready~"
"Okie-Dokey! Now stand back. This'll be quite a log!" Bob alerted. He strained himself, and from his rear end came a stump of grounded dog meat as if his ass was a single-holed meat grinder. He would clench to cut a piece and repeated the process a hundred of times, treating it as a casual number two. These will be the fillings. But Bob forgot the amount of meat he had put inside and failed to realize he ran out. What he thought was the last chunk of beef baby turned out to be stinky poopoo, splattering SpongeBob due to the force of his final push out.
"Christ Almighty Fuck! You soaked my dick with adoodoobo sauce!" cursed SpongeBob. Then his gaze went to the dumpling fillings. "Really!? on the food too!? It's called dumplings, Bob. Not dumpings!"
"My apologies! How the hell would I suppose to know what's coming out!? It all felt the same to me!" Bob Belcher retaliated, "Just tell Remy it's Indian spice or some curry shit!"
Taking it for what it was, SpongeBob sighed, went on to finish wrapping the dumplings—ass gravy and all—and put them on a steamer, going against conventional practice by actually using an actual kitchen equipment for once.