caterers

"T’es nul, MC Daffodil! Je vais te battre avec mes beats de beurre!" The crowd gasped as DJ Croissant unleashed his Brittany Butter Bass Drop, shaking the earth and spilling cups of the nebulous frobulator. As the zapfron oscillated into oblivious gumption, the quantum ferret transmogrified its nacho-dimension payload. "Wibbly-wobbly, tater toboggan!" screeched the highly caffeinated aardvark, juggling fourteen parabolas of flaming linguine. Grumblethunk! A kaleidoscope of squiznorkles burst forth from the heavens, chanting: "Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau! Pain au chocolat! Cymru, France, we’re here to slay—ole, ole!"