The digital haboob over the hometown paper’s clearly incompetent teevee “critic” raised another question beyond “how in holy hell does she keep her job?” And that would be: Whom do she and the Chimp Shill blow? But the most depressing thought is the response I got over to the Twitter from someone noting how bad political coverage is these days: “They are all Panchito now.”
Archive for the ‘panchito’ Category
When my Panchito Beat updater e-informed me that the guy who sold a dry drunk as a harmless good ol’ boy had been among the pundits invited to meet with the Big O before a big speech, I instantly flashed on Al Roker’s confession after his trip to the White House. And, given the Twit-boasting of bingeing on small but epic meatballs, pitied the washroom attendants yet again. Oh, the stories they can’t tell . . . .
Panchito is such a lightweight he still attracts more interest for his short stint covered in napkins than for his political insights, of which he appears starved, as a true media critic notes. In the age of artisanal everything, he gets paid Monsanto-level bucks to churn out high-fructose drivel. But I did get one good LOL: He read the Bruni Digest only once? Sure. And the McD’s at the Spanish Steps is the finest restaurant in Rome.
How clueless is my old two-time employer these days? It appears to be booking seats in the shouty car on the “Reefer Madness” train rather than doing the obvious: Baking up some rex for edible weed, senza green corduroy jeans. For once an ounce is an ounce the world round. (Click here to buy a digital scale.)
Also, too, I don’t know why anyone would be surprised to learn Panchito is a sucker for get-thin-quick scams. This is the gullible dunce who sold a dangerous dry drunk as a harmless good ol’ boy. Of course he would spring for snake oil. And here’s all you need to know about his kitchen cred: Tabasco in the age of sriracha? Might as well confess to finding French’s mustard ass-licking good.
My sources read Panchito so I don’t have to suffer the increasingly saccharine insipidity while the Chimp he flacked continues to go unpunished. So I know the lamest restaurant critic ever has gone all Hallmark on America’s ass without ever noting he is the first gay uncle who does not have to pretend to be straight. Given that we are, for the first time, going through a civil rights revolution driven by neither a war nor legislation crammed down the throats of the free Xians, surely the cause deserves a better banner bearer. As the cries to burn down the op-ed pages grow, and especially after the pushy broad has been ousted, maybe sign up a guy who can both bake and think? Anyone who could bring his own mom over to the enlightened side would be preaching to the convertible. And I don’t mean that in the car sense.
Panchito certainly has exquisite timing, lecturing his fellow citizens on overeating just as many millions risk losing their buck-forty-a-meal food stamps. And someone needs to alert him to why those poor souls don’t do their binge buying at Costco: Walmart doesn’t charge a minimum of a buck-a-week membership fee.
Getting hit with e-updates on Panchito’s innocent-abroad tour was fascinating, not least as he hit the Asian Carnegie Delis. Was there really once a time when a major international news outlet could just pluck a lightweight off the Spanish Steps next to McDonald’s and make him arbiter of tastes in a city with so many representations of vibrant, authentic cuisines? But mostly I laughed. The guy who sold a totally bogus “compassionate conservative” to America can now spot fraud in China?
Much as I would love to quit Panchito, every day brings more reminders of the disaster he played such a heavy hand in creating. He should have been safely assigned to “review” Olive Gardens long ago. But now he’s talking Bush III. Would you buy a used drunk from this guy?
The latest reminder that I should type faster: Skittles have overtaken broccoli as the sad fud in the news. Before that, wingnuts were spewing spittle over the report that the Big O told kiddles his favorite edible is broccoli. I’m half with ‘em — it’s a weird choice. But even if it were a whopper, was it really worse than the Chimp and his yellowcake? Oh. Right. One was a white lie.
Finally I have something to thank Panchito for: rousing me from my torpor here. So much silliness flies by in the fud world that it’s hard to get worked up these days, but his about-face on the Butter Guzzler really was beyond the pale, so to speak. Suddenly “the champion of downscale cooking” scorned by elitists is now a “Confederate caricature” to be scorned by elitists. It’s telling that the guy who sold America a dangerous dry drunk in the guise of a good ol’ boy never bothered to weigh in when the ultimate shill for garbage food cashed in on her secret diabetes. And it’s laughable that he and his colleagues now all seem shocked, shocked by her blatant racism on their very own stage. Somehow, they had to wait for “cyberspace” to address it. Not for nothing is this my favorite photo in the whole mess. Just like the Lump in the Bed, they have an “out, damned spot” on their hands.
Even I am sick to death of reminding Panchito he helped hugely in the Bushwhacking of America. But one of his latest paycheck justifications, passed along by my e-pal who knows him from way back when, merits particular scorn. He’s actually trashing a lesbian for TMI on her scarf-and-barfin’? Didn’t he tell beyond all with his ka-ching? Really, he should just go suck a bag of Cheneys.
Meanwhile, the original weapon of misdirection still has a steady paycheck even as one of the smartest guys in NYC food has been shitcanned. “Freelance bloggers” are already being recruited, because everyone knows advertisers will prop up your site if there’s rabble-regurgitation going on on it. Not surprisingly, the hometown paper took an oddly passive tone in reporting the major upheaval, headlining and leading with “loses” and “leaves” rather than “shitcans,” but everyone working for the Pharaoh knows what that’s all about: Speak up/against and you might be next to find your ass on the curb. And so, just as with the Twinkies tale, readers cannot be informed that olds, like union members and the pension-promised, simply cost more. No joke. It’s just sad.
I’ve always been tempted to try Sandra Day O’s enchilada recipe from my home state, but now that I know she’s too remorseful too late, I’m hoping she and Panchito will just go off to contemplate the damage they did. Into the tequila sunset should suit ‘em both.
Someone needs to alert Panchito: No one wants his “lessons.” We’re still trying to unlearn the last one. The inestimable Charlie Pierce deserves a Pulitzer for this observation alone: Sportswriters have been accused of selling out for a steak dinner, but “you can buy the Washington press corps with a cheap nickname.”