I know your type, asshole. You think yoghurt’s for menopausal women who wear nothing but sweaters, college girls who wear nothing but yoga pants, and guys who wear nothing but other guy’s cocks in their mouths. Well guess the fuck what? This yoghurt would literally murder all of those people, bench press their bodies a few times just to prove that they could do it, and then feed their bodies to pigs if they so much as looked at this yoghurt the wrong way. So help them, God, this yoghurt’s fucking crazy!
You know those commercials where the menopausal women gather in completely white houses to talk about how their yoghurt’s helping them shit better? The people who eat this yoghurt gather in abandoned warehouses to compete over who gets the biggest erection from beating homeless people to death. This yoghurt makes you shit better and then it makes other people shit better, because when they look at you they will shit themselves.
This yoghurt comes in an all-black container, but we call it “midnight” because that’s when the yoghurt coven convenes. The container’s made of old artillery shells and the lid doubles as a throwing star. You can’t open it without cutting yourself, and that’s by design. The blood adds flavour. The pain adds commitment. The scar adds flesh memory. When you see someone with the same scar as you, you’ll give each other nods so manly nearby wildlife will die. And then you will initiate battle, because there can be only one.
You want some peach yogurt? How about key lime? Well, fuck you straight back to your mother’s squandered womb. Our flavors are Gunpowder, Patriarchy, Tool Belt and Abortion. If you don’t already know what those taste like, we don’t want your commie bread line money.
Our yoghurt’s more nutritious than ripping an elk’s beating heart out of its chest and devouring it in full view of the eyes of a creature that’s suddenly gained sentience but can’t do anything with its newfound knowledge except regret it. It gives you vitamins, minerals, protein, probiotics and the power of lesser men. If you eat our yoghurt in front of a doctor he’ll quit his job safe in the knowledge that his services are no longer required. If you feed our yoghurt to a corpse it will come back to an unholy non-life, the only purpose of which is to do your bidding. Nine out of 10 nutritionists recommend our yoghurt, and they also say it goes great with the unworthy body of the tenth.
We’d tell you the name of our yoghurt, but we can’t communicate an hour of Mongolian throat singing through text. We’d tell you how much it costs, but only it chooses the payment it will take from you. We’d tell you where to buy it, but first we need to tell you where to buy the spelunking equipment and arcane weaponry. We’d tell you it’s going to change your life, but it already has.
If you’re pregnant, a minor, have a heart condition or are a pussy then you won’t even be able to lift the Lead Spoon of the Night Razors. If you’re capable, then you already know. Every muscle in your body is straining to tell you. Every neuron in your brain is listening to our yoghurt demand your presence. You will consume it and inspire poets to kill themselves because not even a lifetime of work would allow them to capture your magnificence. You will gaze upon people who eat other brands of yoghurt the way a lion gazes upon a gazelle. You will taste infinity and skull fuck the stars. This is manly yoghurt, motherfuckers, and it will bring ruin to the very concept of civilisation if it does not get its goddamn way.