Now that the flour has hit the media fan, it’s fascinating to see NYC pizzerias are not bitching about the price of mozzarella as they jack the cost of a slice to gallon-of-gas level — I noticed they substituted mystery slime for even the most base processed cheese long ago. But the disconnect between front page and Metro was weird, with the latter following the exact script laid out in the home of the Human Scratch N Match. The big picture made it clear that, thanks to Chimp rule, we are eight years behind in dealing with both climate change and overpopulation (don’t tell Africa, but abstinence = trouble — my mom had two books on the rhythm method and seven kids in 8 1/2 years). And the whole move toward biofuels is going about as well as everything else he’s pushed. What kind of switchgrassed society would think fueling an SUV was a higher priority than feeding human beings? I guess one with people too fat to walk. You know we’re doomed when a restaurant offers a shuttle bus that will clog traffic and spew fumes just to ferry patrons from the East Village to the near West Village. I could limp faster than a rolling drunk tank.
Turns out the Chimp and I have something almost in common. He had no idea gas prices had hit latte levels. And until I saw a news item on pizza inflation, I didn’t realize how expensive flour had gotten. Now I see the Food Shitty flier has it at $2.49 for five pounds, which is exactly two and a half times what I last remember paying on sale. I don’t have an MBA for Harvard to revoke, but I can at least enjoy the fact that the Skank Twin’s wedding cake will eat up a little more of the ill-gotten oil gains than it would have if she were getting married under that guy who inspired “Love Story.” The one you wouldn’t want to have a beer with.
Off and on over the last horrific seven years I have been trying to come up with a spoof on How to Cook a Shrub. Now the exemplary Tom Engelhardt has done something far more impressive with his commander-in-chef recipes. Nothing says disaster accomplished like an edible flower garnish.
Now that orange Tic Tacs have turned up in not one but two movies about literally fucked-up situations you would almost suspect the silly things are aphrodisiacs. Maybe whoever is product-placing them should be appointed brand ambassador for what’s left of America when the Chimp finally knuckles back to his preserve in Texas. We’re going to need someone who can make shit as seductive as Shinola.
Mississippi is taking its share of crap for a proposed law prohibiting restaurants from serving the obese, but I kinda like the whole idea. By the same logic, drugstores should have to cut off whatever pharmacopia gets Mrs. War Criminal through the night. And Congresscritters should be banned from cutting any more checks to military contractors until they slim down big time. Supersizing them is what got us into this 100-year siege.
Speaking of the Journal, whatever else Murdoch is doing to that paper, he at least is keeping subscribers up on what matters: how the Kravises eat. Sending Ray Sokolov to drop almost half a grand a head at Cafe Gray was sheer brilliance at a time when the borrower in chief is getting ready to dispense alms to revive the economy. But this was obviously the right reporter on the luxury front lines, not realizing Rome has already fallen: He knew there was a pea under his seat cushion. And gol darn it, when they say chef’s table there should damn sure be a chef around to kiss some derrieres. I think he forgot this is W’s America: To make it here, a celebrity has to work three or four or 18 restaurant jobs. More of those tales, please, sir.
Maybe because 935 of his other lies have just been cataloged, the Chimp is now admitting that if you did have a beer with him, he’d puke in your car if not drive it into the ditch. No wonder the Skank Twin will be cutting into the wedding cake at the “ranch.” They can all party like it’s 2000 with no pesky photographers counting the shots.
Get ready for the return of the Twinkie defense. The Brits are researching whether there’s a correlation between a crappy diet and violence. But it says everything that, rather than actually feed prison inmates better food, they are merely going to test half with placebos and the rest with vitamins and fish oil capsules. Big Pharma must be salivating at the contracts to be had down the line when all gruel is additive-enriched. And actually, the inquiring minds could save themselves mega-quid just by analyzing the intake of the latest King George. Eating nothing but grilled cheese and burgers obviously leads to war crimes.
Travel is wasted on the incurious, which is why it’s even more depressing to watch the Chimp parade around the Middle East with his usual dazed demeanor, security-blanketed by his monogrammed gift bibs. The only thing that makes it bearable is imagining a guy who eats like a 5-year-old having to take his 45-car motorcade into drive-throughs if he wants his Big Mac felafel and side of fries. Oh, the tantrums he must throw.
Talk about a confederacy of dunces — the great WSJ story on how horses are suffering as the economy goes to hell is a telling example of what happens when the Chimp’s incompetence meets the cretinism of bleeding-heart airheads. Letting high-maintenance animals starve because the slaughterhouses have been shut down is not exactly enforcing their rights. There are worse things than butchering Trigger for dinner.
Far-flung corners of the food blogosphere have been in a tizzy over the revelation that Jed Huckabee chose the Olive Garden as his dining destination in America’s premier food city. (It says everything that the reporter refused him his first choice, T.G.I.Friday’s — who says the media are not a class apart?) I see it as the most entertaining sign yet that “I Didn’t Inhale Oxford” is gaining traction. After all, a dry drunk was elected as the guy America most wanted to share a beer with. A former fatty who doesn’t know from Per Se may be just the ticket for the cretin crowd.
A blogger at the Houston Chronicle who was allowed to scoop up some White House holiday crumbs had the right reaction to a significantly sugary creation at the media fete this year: What the holy hell was it? I would say that if it’s not a cry for help it must be evidence of torture. Either the poor pastry Fredo is getting into the bourbon his boss claims to have given up, or he really needs Mrs. Chimp to share her Xanax. If there is an allah, ghosts of Christmas are running wild in that mansion.
Another 400-or-so days of government by Big Business and we won’t have to worry about drowning in sea water in landlocked Omaha — food poisoning may do us all in. The dutiful stenographers in the press have just dutifully disclosed that the FDA has gotten China to agree to “eventually” allow U.S. inspectors in its food factories. Right. That gutted agency can’t even keep shit out of the spinach here in the homeland, and it’s going to stop the flood of fish farmed in sewage? Anyone have a bridge to the 21st century left to sell?
Given that everything the Chimp does is more about image than action, you would think the lump in his bed might have had the good sense to rein in the holiday overkill this year. Food banks all over the country are crying the empty blues, but it’s Excess Accomplished on Pennsylvania Avenue: shrimp and ham and steak and crab cakes and tamales and endless asparagus in December, and that’s even before the 18 desserts at each reception. Not surprisingly, even the menu lies — “creamed pan drippings” sounds to me an awful lot like good old “gravy.”
A particularly bad, ridiculously overpriced Mexican restaurant in Manhattan appears to have hired the Chimp’s dream pollsters. The comment card that arrives with the check gives exactly three choices to check off: Happy. Very happy. Extremely happy. I guess that’s one way to forestall “worst experience ever.”