Hyperbole

The most magnificent,

life-changing,

world-saving,

resplendent

thing

since the bravest,

truest,

most finely sharpened knife

that the universe had ever known

carved out the first

impossibly shapely,

sumptuously stylish

and seductively supple

slice

from the fluffiest,

flakiest,

most divinely encrusted

loaf

which ever did rise,

whose perfection was spawned

at the convergence

of the purest water,

finest flour,

most ravenous

and most morally astute

yeast particles,

and the most precisely heated,

immaculately assembled

brick-festooned oven ever built.

Imagine,

if the meager three dimensions

of your shallow

human mind

will allow

it,

not one,

but ye! two!

of these circumspectly curated cuttings

of wholesome wheat,

betwixt which

might be laid to rest

a beautifully butchered,

titillatingly tender

sheet of meat

stripped softly and painlessly

from the most

serene and saintly swine —

a proper priest of a peccary! —

wrapped then in regal raiment

of lettuce, tomato, onion,

all of such supreme, earth-quaking quality

which could only have been gardened

by the green thumb

of god herself.

What, then,

could be better?