You don’t like burritos. Or any other Mexican food, for that matter.

There were a lot of things I was willing to overlook when we first started hanging out. Your glasses that turn into sunglasses in the sun, your constant joke about the size of your wiener, those jeans with the funny little embroidery on the pockets.

But then you dropped a bomb. “I don’t really like Mexican food.” Complete silence from my end - “Not even Burritos?” “Not even burritos.” Well, you might as well have just punched me in the throat and called me fat. What the hell is wrong with you? Even the pickiest of eaters like burritos. They’re versatile. They’re delicious. THEY’RE FUCKING BURRITOS. Look, I’m really sorry if you only like cheese pizza and french fries. I mean, they’re tasty, who doesn’t like pizza? But I really didn’t expect a grown-ass man to eat like a 7-year old. I can give you graphs and charts and statistics to prove that you really SHOULD like burritos. What’s that? You’ve only had them once or twice? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK? I tried mayonnaise for AT LEAST a year before I decided I hated it. And you’re basing your disdain on a couple of bad experiences. I’m not about to force you to try anything you claim not to like, but I simply just can’t roll with a dude who doesn’t like my all-time favorite food of all time. Give me a call when you’re ready to hit up Chipotle.

Written by theveryangrykaterpillar.

GUESTBREAKER: You Call Them Sammiches

Dear Person I Am Not Going To Ever See Again,

They are called sandwiches. The only adults who call them “sammiches” are the ones who are about to molest a child.

Also, this one adorable, on-purpose mispronunciation leads me to believe that if I spent the night at your apartment, you would hold me all night long.

Which is awful. You are awful.

Sandwiches,
Chris

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Chris Kelly.

You Order For Me

I’ve never been here before, this menu looks great!  Hmm… pastas, salads, breadsticks, soups… I’m sorry, I’m going to need at least a few minutes to decide.  What’s that?  It’s taken care of?  But-but-but.  Ordering for ourselves is one of our basic freedoms!  This is a step backwards in women’s rights!  This is what our ancestors fought for!  I might have slept through most of Gender Studies, but I do know this: that Gloria Steinem lady would NOT approve.

GUESTBREAKER: You Made Fish Soup

I thought it was pretty cool when you invited me over for dinner. We’ve gone out a couple of times and you’re really nice so I was pretty excited. Until, that is, I got to your place and asked what you were making and you said “fish soup.” Are you serious? Is that supposed to be romantic? We were on the road to boneville and then you said the words “fish soup.” I just threw up in my brain. Here’s what’s actually on the menu tonight: I’m going to get a sandwich and watch tv at home.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Nicola.

“Frisee lettuce is a fucking joke. Way to fill my salad with a bunch of bullshit. If I wanted to eat thorns, I would chomp on a fucking rose bush.”

A SALADBREAKER by Jennie Pierson.

GUESTBREAKER: Your Ironic Fashion Mullet

I’m sorry, but the irony is lost on me. Your clothes are okay, and you have a cute face. But what’s that? Why is your hair longer in the back. Oh. Ew. I don’t really want to sweetly caress your locks when we make out. It reminds me of Billy Ray Cyrus, if he liked Animal Collective.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Hannah.

GUESTBREAKER: You Didn’t Make Me A Sandwich

I know I totally rocked your world babe, so when you asked me if you could return the favor, I thought I made myself pretty clear: “Yo, make me a sandwich.” And you laughed. You thought I was kidding. Baby, all I want are some delicious deli meats smothered in mustard between two slices of bread, and I want it served to me in bed, king style. Yeah, that’s right, king style. What? You think I’m being “weird” and “sexist”? That I should walk the ten-or-so feet to the kitchen and make my own damn sandwich? You asked me what I wanted. And babe, I told you. I want a sandwich—a delicious, life-sustaining, post-coital sandwich.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Taylor.

GUESTBREAKER: You’re a Picky Eater

So what do you feel like having for dinner? Want to try that new Indian place? You don’t like Indian food? Not even Tandoori chicken or naan? What about pho? A bento box? Chicken chow mein? You’re not really into “ethnic” food?!

Listen buddy, if I have to hear you order a plain cheeseburger and tell the waitress to be sure and hold the ketchup one more time I’m going to scream. For the last time, they don’t have noodles with butter at the Osteria and I’m sick to hell of making you cheese quesadillas on the stove top. You have the diet of 12-year-old latch-key kid. Your arteries are probably so coated with kraft singles and oreo cookies that you wouldn’t be able to walk up to that taco stand even if you were willing to try the al pastor. There’s more to life than goddamned Easy Mac and canned Chicken and Stars soup. Why not at least have some carrots and celery with that ranch dressing? No? You don’t like vegetables either? Well, I hope you and your chicken fingers will be very happy together.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Jen.

GUEST(NED)BREAKER: You’re Not A Delicious Pizza

I see what you are trying to do there. Really, I do. You’re trying to get me to notice you. But you are not a delicious pizza! I know, babe. I’m sorry. I don’t care about that new lingerie, or the new fragrance you’re wearing, or the fancy new hat you bought. I don’t care about any of that. The fact is is that you’re just not a delicious pizza.

See, I want to put you in my mouth. I’m sure - if I really thought about it - I could put you in my mouth. But you are a girl. You just wouldn’t fit.

Now - the PIZZA on the other hand - will FIT in my MOUTH. And it tastes delicious, like the dough was rolled on the backs of Ukranian beauty queens and the cheese is strong, sweet and powerful, like it was fermented between two Hemingway novels. And the toppings! THE TOPPINGS. I can choose The Pizza’s toppings, but I cannot choose yours because you are “a lady” and you “can vote” and “dress yourself”. I can dress the pizza however I see fit.

So no, babe. I don’t care about your naked body, your blowjob practices, or your ability to perform the oft-talked about but nary-actualized ‘Beaver Hat’. The fact is that you are not a pizza, and I’m sorry. Are you crying? Why don’t you me and the pizza sit down and wa - - -

Fine. Be that way. I’ll be here with my baby. The only one that understands me.

A Guest Dealbreaker written by the hungriest expatriate we know, Ned Hepburn.