Finally, it’s only taken 12 years, but Panchito is finally getting the towel snap across the fanny he deserved. Lesson for voters: Make sure the guy you want to have a beer with can actually drink. Otherwise, you could sign up for some boozy FB group and wake up in a FEMA camp — or, in a fate after death, baptized as Mormon.
Once again, I have to thank my Panchito tracker for tipping me off to the latest embarrassment, which involved damning workers near the bottom of the food chain for getting duped in a movie and maybe in real life. As MPT noted, it’s a pot/kettle black mark on his already abysmal record as a non-S&B columnist. Did he somehow forget who let the hot dog out?
A secret source who knows him from way back in his word-salad-shooting days does the reading so I don’t have to and has now alerted me that Panchito definitely did not learn his lesson when he was last seduced by a “real” “he-man” — he’s back and fluffing the Zombie-Eyed Granny Starver. Will the sequel be “Noodling Through History”?
And this is not Fud, but it is good, passed along by a reader who knew Panchito back when his word salads did nominal harm in the “let ’em go bankrupt” capital of America.
And my supremely wise consort has long insisted any think tank given print time should be identified by its political bent: Left or KKKrazy. Never was that more needed than the day the Egopedist became the dummy for ventriloquists who hide their animal-rights activism behind the white coat covering 5 percent of their organization. I can’t remember who on Twitter added the perfect hed to the milk dis — “Got ghostwriter?” — but I was glad to see I was not alone in calling BullShit. This is where the editors who mistook a $500-a-week gig for a deal might want to face what a monster they’ve created. An audience of millions needs to be fed truth, not pop science. Especially when it’s being spoon-fed by an organization that cares nothing about health and the environment. Contrast the “milk’ll kill ya” with this sanity. As I have said many times, the first time I was assigned a piece to edit, I was warned: “He’s not a very sophisticated writer.” He was brought on when the 1/2/3 passed on the zombie Franey gig. One day the seersuckers will look back and realize they should have put Panchito on the nutrition-nuttiness beat. At least the word salad could have been doused in Ranch dressing . . .
I’ll give Panchito this credit: He inadvertently exposed how easily seduced any campaign reporter can be by a wink and a towel snap. So thank allah and Al Gore’s invention of the internets that America won’t be fooled again. Those who throw away their teevees and let their print subscriptions lapse will still learn about “a pony in every pot.” And about how bogus every food-related photo op with the dog & pony abuser really is. Even those who don’t dwell on gods and guns and religion should be fearing for their coffee. Any guarantee a Mormon in Chief won’t take the caffeine away?
Panchito is really the twit that keeps on giving. Lately I’ve been seeing him dissed as an idjit because he was a restaurant critic and so must be clueless about anything non-food. But of course “Columnist Boyardee” was dumb about food before he was dumb about politics again. Although he was clearly a better judge of tuna tartare than of presidential timber.
Nobody could top Andy Borowitz’s Tweet observing that G.F.Y. Cheney had gotten a new heart while the Chimp was still awaiting a brain transplant. And probably no one can figure out why Panchito confessed to the condition his condition is in. As my consort asked: “He has gout? Why would I care?” As always, though, the round one revealed more than he intended. No one who thinks “revolting in its bloat” is the best thing in fud should ever be a restaurant reviewer. Images of Nick Nolte assessing ’82 Bordeaux immediately come to mind.
Panchito has some nerve coming out as a prohibitionist now, 12 long years after he enabled a dry drunk to take the wheel and turn the ship of state into the USS Titanic. Gullible stenographers are much more dangerous to health and welfare than mere booze.
And Panchito of course had to go and make things worse with his dodging and weaving on a subject he really should stay the hell away from. (And I don’t mean politics.) The last thing people need at this point is silly scare stories on how you have to kill yourself to stay thin. Ask Mme “French Women Don’t Get Fat.” Hard as it is for him to imagine, and once was for me, it’s all about a healthy relationship with food. Which is possible if you tune out 99 percent of the merde you read/hear. But the funniest thing is imagining what tune the round one would be playing if the satanic drug dealer had been caught selling a line of food for companion animals that gave them diabetes. Somehow I suspect his editor the dog diarist would call out the pitchforks.
I’ll acknowledge being rather brutal toward the Lump in the Bed (as her husband christened her with less affection than he showed Panchito). But she did kill someone (who was it who said there are no accidents?) And she did sit by “smoking and reading” while her dry drunk drove the country into the ditch. But even she didn’t deserve the ugliness of the attacks on her successor, which all seem to have something to do with melanin. So I was glad to see Media Matters dig around to prove the ugliness has nothing to do with nutrition. Guess whose administration was pushing the very same “eat less & exercise” message. And of course it’s down the memory hole because, like everything the Texan Lady Macbeth was involved with, it was a fail. Processed crap gets crappier, kids get fatter. You can’t explain that.
Even I get weary of picking on Panchito, but he really should take that huge target off his posterior. Didn’t he help keep the Lump in the Bed’s fatal distraction off the national radar until the Chimp was duly installed? And at least he could be gracious enough to address the dissing her successor is taking from the KKKrazies. He is, after all, a guy with his own twisted relationship with pretzels.
And I almost felt sorry for Panchito when Gawker tore him a new bunghole over his latest thousand-word motivational poster. But as a real friend on Facebook noted, he must make enough not to earn pity. So I’ll just disagree with everyone who opines that he should go back to the fud beat. Because he was just as shallow and lacking in expertise and pedaling inanely there. Two years around the McD’s at the Spanish Steps does not an A.J. Liebling make.
If the hometown paper had a microgram of self-awareness it would put Panchito on hiatus till next November, or maybe just let him natter on about beer snacks and the harmless characters America might wanna eat them with. As it is, too many readers remember the sweaty bar towel the Chimp snapped across his ass. . .
Given that he wanted to bring his table cred to the column, though, I wonder if he noted that food commercials are held to a pretty high standard. You can’t use shaving cream for whipped cream, or mashed potatoes for ice cream, to avoid having your product melt under hot lights. You can’t claim your cereal is more nutritious than your rival’s unless it actually is. Which makes me think maybe pizza morphing into a vegetable is an unhealthier start than we realized. Food is this close to being declared a citizen.
And I’m happy to see everyone freaking the crust out over pizza being declared a vegetable, but if food had been treated more seriously by the media all these years maybe Americans would have understood how it happened. I’ve written before how the backwater on the Potomac suddenly became Restaurant Central under the Chimp’s reign of error (thank you, Panchito), but no one ever connected the dots — a consequence of segregating food coverage in the getting-and-spending sections. Stuffy old French places from the Reagan era were still good enough during the Clinton boom, but somehow money started flowing in the streets in the 21st century, especially around Penn Quarter. If you want to keep frozen Freedom Fries on school lunch menus, you have to buy yourself a few congressmen. Over drinks and dinner.