There’s far too much “foodiness” in the world today.
There are whole TV networks devoted just to food. And it’s never anything you’d actually want to eat, like blister-pack baloney or processed “cheese” made from petroleum byproducts on nutrient-free Wonder bread with sandwich spread.
It’s never Velveeta melted on a cheap knockoff non-Thomas’s English muffin.
Even hot dogs are no longer sacred. I saw a preview for a show where the jerkweed “foodie” host asked a guy who owned a hot-dog stand how many hot dogs he had on the menu, and he said, “About 250.”
“I’ll take a hot dog, please.”
“You want squid on that?”
GET the fuck outta here.
There are many shows where “chefs” vie for prizes by seeing who can make the prissiest food.
What homosexuals do in the privacy of their own restaurants is their own business, but not in my living room, thank you very much.
They’re often touting “fresh” ingredients and extolling the virtues of “salads.”
Ha! No, really!
I grew up on canned lettuce.
That, and canned Chef Boyardee (not his real name) Spaghetti-O’s and such.
We did fine. The lead poisoning is manageable.
They’re also big on “seafood” and all the lovely fresh bounty from that, that “ocean,” or, as I like to call it, “The World’s Sewer.”
You just can’t micro-plane enough lemon zest onto a toxic waste-infused piece of haddock to suit me.
Is that a pin-bone in my tilapia? Or a hypodermic needle?
Is that a pin-bone in my tilapia? Or is it just happy to see me?
There’s too much bread in the world, too. You’ll often find me in the bread section of the supermarket softly weeping.
“Do I want 7-grain bread? Or 12-grain?”
Their more-grains-in-our-bread-than-Thou attitude sickens me.
And if you do find me in the bread section of your local supermarket gently weeping, could you do me a favor? Hold me? If only for a moment?
Foie gras is something you often hear the foodiest of foodies waxing reverential about.
God only knows what that is, but it’s obviously something invented by the French, those effete snooty twits always looking down their noses at gastronomically challenged us until it’s time to run off some invaders for them.
Then they’re all, like, “Sacre bleu!” and, and “Magnifique!”
Suck our d’ique.
I ain’t eating no Frog food unless you call it freedom gras.
I guess I’m just a simple man of simple pleasures. Give me sea urchin smothered in Miracle Whip and I’m a happy camper.
Figuratively speaking, that is. I don’t like camping any more than I like arugula or radicchio.