Review: President – King of Terrors

September 23, 2025

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A change in careers is seldom a simple transition. As you may remember, under constant barrage of financial obstacles, the Toilet’s ever-favorite son of all things dissonant had to forge a new path as a humble ride operator at your local traveling faire. Well, after having to constantly turn away a little man-boy with autotuned whines, I have had enough. You win, I have had my Phil. Now for my newest and, dare I say, most exciting venture yet: that’s right, I am opening my own restaurant! You may think this a doomed endeavor, a failure just waiting to happen. However, I disagree as what could be more monetarily secure than diving into the tumultuous world of a restaurateur?

A fusion restaurant it shall be and I shall proclaim it the best, newest, and most original thing since the creation of our very universe. It comes out of nowhere, no one wants it, but those already in the industry keep telling the public it’s amazing and groundbreaking. It also definitely isn’t trying to be an even lamer copy of an already existing restaurant from the UK whose food is already unbearable and lacks even a basic knowledge of seasoning and execution. A cheap and somehow even lamer version it shan’t be despite having no true formal training or experience in this world, but who needs that sort of thing?

Opening day is upon us, the nerves a wreck, but I am a man, nay, an entity that has persevered through some of the worst this world has to offer. As I approach the doors to officially begin this endeavor, I am surprised to see a non-descript man in a plain suit and glasses awaiting me. He barely even waits for me to unlock them before plowing through the doors and clamoring for me to take in and serve this group of individuals just awkwardly standing in the middle of the street grinding over one another in masks while listening to Coldplay. They appear oblivious to everything and everyone around them, yet this suit assures me they are veeerrrryyyy important. Fine, one cannot simply turn down business, especially in this tumultuous economy.

They are ushered in by said suit as they appear incapable of guiding themselves, opening a door themselves, or really doing any task not specifically laid out before them by this near-faceless man with the neatly-creased three-piece. These young men now sitting down continue wearing these strange masks of older men, perhaps to force upon me an enigmatic feeling of curiosity or maybe they just enjoy some anonymity; whatever their reasoning, they are definitely not allowed to remove them at any point. They don’t even spare a glance at the menu as the man in the suit orders for them. He knows all about my new restaurant, seemingly being more familiar with it than anyone else I have encountered. The fusion aspect of strange components was particularly of high interest to him as he feels it will be a wonderful source of inspiration for this masked group.

First out is the appetizer: a starter of unique tastes as it combines the unusual pairing of fried catfish, chocolate syrup, and pickled tripe. Though not traditional in its flavor profile and perhaps tasting like actual dirt, the masked patrons instantly fall in love with its confusing and disjointed nature, but the suit is not happy with the choices and demands even stranger fusions to truly push the limit. I am a man who steps up to such challenges, so now I know I can take the kid’s gloves off for the main course: minced meat smoothies with wasabi and surströmming, a dish designed to add together that which should not be. No one is sophisticated enough to understand the level of flavor pairing this dish presents, yet this group appears satiated. Maybe this restaurant business isn’t so difficult after all.

Before dessert, the suit motions me over with a limp wrist, whispers in my ear about how well the meal is received; however, there has been one major flaw in my dishes: too much flavor. While the group is enjoying the experience, the simple fact is that my fusions are too complicated for them. Not a problem as I set to prepare the final course, that being the star finish. I have worked on this recipe for years, fine-tuning the minute details, going to a level of obscure detail sure to be overlooked by the vast majority. I complete the finishing details and bring out the climatic ending of the evening. A plate of actual dog shit, but shaped into a general and unoffensive form.

Ecstatic would be an understatement to describe the euphoric experience collectively felt at the table. The earthy notes mixed with the slight hints of chocolate and gritty pieces. Even the worms wriggling around in search of a new host bring delight to the suit’s eerie face of approval. They group has finished, but wait to stand until being told to, say nothing as they leave, and seemingly vanish into the dreary night never to be seen by these eyes again. What a pleasant experience, definitely nothing strange or off-putting in the slightest. I hope those masked individuals are well and I definitely hope my strange cuisine, which no one else seems to like except for another group of masked men with an unexplainable large audience, use my ideas for their own endeavors. Be well ye plain and masked men, perhaps we shall meet again one day as I close my beloved restaurant in search of my new calling.