3/28/07
Uh, Problem?
There are few things in this life less helpful than your car’s “Check Engine” light. The manufacturers might as well just have a giant middle finger illuminate in its place.
Uh, Problem?There are few things in this life less helpful than your car’s “Check Engine” light. The manufacturers might as well just have a giant middle finger illuminate in its place.
BAM, Y’all!
I watch a great deal of Food Network, given that I find few things more enjoyable than cooking. Now, I don’t dislike either Emeril or Paula Dean, but I loathe their fans with a passion unequalled except by my distain for anyone who talks about their pets for more than fifteen seconds. In Emeril’s case his studio audience makes me want to run through the crowd just lopping off appendages with a chainsaw. They are so far up Emeril’s ass I’m surprised I can’t see the breathing apparatus trailing from his rectum. I like spice as much as the next guy, but merely adding garlic to something doesn’t give me an awe-gasm the way his audience moans and applauds as if watching a Roman orgy. Dude, he’s an awesome chef, but this level of worship should really be reserved for people handing out poisoned Kool-Aid, okay? It’s fucking paprika; get over it.
Admittedly Paula Dean’s accent annoys me, as it’s “Southern genteel” tweaked to the point of madness. I can’t really fault someone for their regional dialect, to a point, but neither can you expect to fault me when I want to strangle you for saying “y’all” every six words. For that reason I don’t watch her show, but I bear the woman no ill will. The people who do watch her show, however, should be buried in cement up to their necks and have their facial orifices sexually assaulted by rabid helper monkeys. I only know this because every bloody day in the lunch room a gaggle of ten women hijack the TV, giggling and guffawing at every country-fried quip that falls from Paula’s mouth. Where Emeril’s fan club messes their pants every time he uses garlic, Paula’s crew of menopausal zeros unleashes gales of cheers and laughter at the very mention of her adding “butt’ah” (butter) to something. Why milk fat should elicit such an uproarious response can only be understood by those afflicted with hysterical lunacy, but it might go a long way to understanding why every one of these women sort of look as though their heart might attack them at any given second. I hate them.
I watch a great deal of Food Network, given that I find few things more enjoyable than cooking. Now, I don’t dislike either Emeril or Paula Dean, but I loathe their fans with a passion unequalled except by my distain for anyone who talks about their pets for more than fifteen seconds. In Emeril’s case his studio audience makes me want to run through the crowd just lopping off appendages with a chainsaw. They are so far up Emeril’s ass I’m surprised I can’t see the breathing apparatus trailing from his rectum. I like spice as much as the next guy, but merely adding garlic to something doesn’t give me an awe-gasm the way his audience moans and applauds as if watching a Roman orgy. Dude, he’s an awesome chef, but this level of worship should really be reserved for people handing out poisoned Kool-Aid, okay? It’s fucking paprika; get over it.Admittedly Paula Dean’s accent annoys me, as it’s “Southern genteel” tweaked to the point of madness. I can’t really fault someone for their regional dialect, to a point, but neither can you expect to fault me when I want to strangle you for saying “y’all” every six words. For that reason I don’t watch her show, but I bear the woman no ill will. The people who do watch her show, however, should be buried in cement up to their necks and have their facial orifices sexually assaulted by rabid helper monkeys. I only know this because every bloody day in the lunch room a gaggle of ten women hijack the TV, giggling and guffawing at every country-fried quip that falls from Paula’s mouth. Where Emeril’s fan club messes their pants every time he uses garlic, Paula’s crew of menopausal zeros unleashes gales of cheers and laughter at the very mention of her adding “butt’ah” (butter) to something. Why milk fat should elicit such an uproarious response can only be understood by those afflicted with hysterical lunacy, but it might go a long way to understanding why every one of these women sort of look as though their heart might attack them at any given second. I hate them. 
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