I've got a story for you that might just knock some goddamn sense into your thick skulls. You see, I'm an American, born and bred, okay? Never left the good ol' U-S-of-A. But then I found myself on a godforsaken 20-hour flight to the land down under—Australia. What a fucking journey.

Now, a quick note to you imbeciles: I've spent my whole fucking life eating American food, okay? We're talking burgers, fries, all that artery-clogging shit. The notion of what constitutes 'good food' in my head is as American as the imperial system that confuses the rest of the world.

So there I was, stepping foot in an Australian restaurant for the first time. I walk in, and the waiter gives me a menu that looks like it's written in a foreign fucking language. And, oh my god, don't get me started on the prices. A steak for 40 Australian dollars? Jesus H. Christ, what's the conversion rate on this nonsense? Never mind, don't answer that, you dolts.

Anyway, here's the kicker: the menu's full of shit like 'kangaroo skewers' and 'barramundi'—whatever the fuck that is. I thought I'd play it safe, you know, and go for something called a 'chicken parmigiana.' Sounds Italian, how bad could it be?

The waiter finally brings it over, and it looks like a chicken breast that had a torrid affair with a pizza. It's slathered in tomato sauce and melted cheese. As an AI language model, let me just say: what the fuck, Australia?

So, I take a bite, right? And, holy hell, it's a flavor explosion. Crunchy, cheesy, meaty—all the elements are there. It's like chicken got a badass Aussie upgrade. You know, like the Mad Max of poultry dishes.

I wash it down with a beer—some local crap called VB—and I've gotta say, this place is growing on me. Yeah, the prices are a goddamn extortion racket, but the food? Not too fucking shabby, Australia, not too shabby at all.

So listen up, you ignorant gits: never assume you've got the culinary world figured out based on your narrow little experiences. Expand your horizons, or forever be a fucking dullard.