Mothers, shut your pie holes

The chef who was lucky to have been canned rather than mowed down by Mrs. Chimp deserves a second medal on his whites, for lashing out twice at all the wannabe food advisers to the Big O for their “presumptions” about how the White House kitchen is stocked. I had wondered how a huge story could be printed with no effort made to actually, you know, ask about what goes on there now. Obviously, you don’t get organics without manure.

Pretzels with parsley

Then again, the White House has a pretty dark curtain around it when it comes to the care and feeding of its inhabitants. The new National Geographic doesn’t do much to pull that thing back, but I did absorb the chilling fact that the chef will sometimes “stop in at a local butcher on the way to work and pick up a last-minute chop for the President’s dinner.” Might be safer to raise a few heritage hogs out on the lawn the devout want turned into a victory garden. And cheaper: Who knew “the President is billed for all food consumed by his family and his personal guests”? Or that the sticker price shock kicks in because “you’ve got world-class chefs — the garnishes they put on foods, the way they dress them up, it’s like eating in a restaurant”? The real lipstick on the pig must have been the Per Se-style sevruga caviar on the Chimp’s hot dogs.

Food donations welcome at the “library”

As my consort described it, I went from zero to profanity on Thanksgiving morning after waking to hear the Chimp on NPR with the toughest of interviewers, the female spawn of his hateful mother’s frighteningly withered loins. And of course she didn’t ask the obvious question, how a war criminal could have the gall to “pardon” a turkey. If there were any justice in the world, his wriggling fanny and gushing neck would have been the ones exposed to all the world in the Palin/“Fargo” photo op.

Clover-hoof rolls we understand

Of course, everything you need to know about how this evil fuck has been able to get away with perpetrating his soulless incompetence on the country for eight long years can be found in one detail of his own Thanksgiving menu. For at least the last two years, countless news reports have listed “Morelia-style gazpacho with spinach salad” among the otherwise clichéd trimmings for the Camp David turkey. Normal inquiring minds might want to know what the hell that might be, exactly. But not the stenographers who have covered this evil fuck the last eight years. They wrote it down, published it and waited for the next handout. “Preznit give me turkee,” indeed.

Blood, blood wine

And the designated Chimpette certainly put on a red-rum show with what All Hat No Cattle dubbed “Deliverance Meets Fargo” at the enviable turkey farm. I hope her motivation was not simply to generate more coverage. Otherwise she’s going to be pulling a Sharon Stone next. And that vagina is a clown car. (I can say that as the middle child of seven catapulted out in 8 1/2 years.) If you think I’m mean, consider how another blogger described the great dim hope: Cheney with smaller breasts. So much for moose chili. . . .

Make your own pretzel foam

Nice of the Chimp to start squandering all the high-priced wine before people who might actually appreciate it take over the cellar. I would like to have been a roach on the wall, though, when they ruined his dinner by handing him the menu listing the eggplant and fennel fondue with chanterelle jus. All that freedom food when he really only understands hot dogs.

Cramming with Food Arts

Seriously, what the Besmirched House dishes up for state dinners is almost parody material. Why, if you were serving smoked quail, would you cite “fruitwood” and not whatever the hell tree you chopped down? Can you actually “thyme-roast” lamb? (In a burning bush, maybe?) And how do you jus a chanterelle? Just like everything else in the last miserable eight years, it’s a heckuva job passing as competence. Pretty bad when even Rick Bayless would be an improvement over the affirmative action chef.

Giving disabled ducks a bad name

I see by my countdown clock that the Chimp has just over two months left to create a legacy beyond torture, war crimes, Constitution-shredding, pretzel-choking, incompetence, new Depression and general destructive idiocy. We need a drinking song to get us through every day till January 20: “Sixty-nine bottles of wine on the wall. . . .”

In with Spiaggia, out with hot dogs

Call this the luck of the drip — I slept right through the most momentous evening in my lifetime, to the point where I could barely rouse myself for a terrorist fist bump with the nurse taking vital signs just before midnight who announced: “He won! He won! All the residents are out in the street celebrating!” To compensate I’ve been obsessing on the big issues, like all the horseshit stories speculating on which celebrity chef is likely to be hired to cook for the classy family evicting the Chimp and his Stepford enabler. (Can you say banquet boss?) And to think it was only eight years ago that my then-employer had to agonize over stories on whether the booze in sauces and stews cooked off enough to be safe for the untreated alcoholic who somehow wound up president. (All hail Panchito!) It’s morning in America when wine is spotted in a candidate’s kitchen. Even Kendall-Jackson is one giant leap beyond near-beer.

Witless critic in topless bar

No wonder Democrats are in major meltdown worrying the Big O will not be able to vanquish the pasty guy and the caribou killer. The NYT keeps trotting out the gullible ghost of elections past, good old Panchito, to let him pontificate between bites. It’s like it’s 2000 all over again. Or, put another way, like Apples and orangutan enablers.