I probably should be more worried about the next book from My Biggest Fan, but what I won’t read can’t hurt me. (Some “friend” or reader will report, I’m sure; he’s very good for traffic.) And I did survive the Porcine Pantload’s straining at stool, after all. Until any acid hits, though, I am enjoying seeing one thing reaffirmed: It’s hard out there for a Schnorrer.
End times are clearly upon us. A tipster steered me to Fatter Guy’s screed against the Porcine Pantload, and I found myself agreeing with the former. Not completely, but still. One thinks we’re at Y2K 2.0 stage, while the other thinks hard times are a good excuse for yet more gluttony. My issue is with the absurd notion of blowing through your larder as if there will always be a Food Shitty open nearby, simultaneously starving stores and restaurants of your necessary cash. I somehow don’t think an invitation to an orgy is the answer, though. And it’s pretty clear the fight is over which twin wears the tony for the teevee. Why am I not surprised that a relationship forged in e-rectum has turned toxic? (I think the Republicans’ star junkie would describe it as anal poisoning.) As for news that sales of baking essentials are way up while feminine hygiene indulgences are sinking, I don’t even want to dwell. Not when the choice here is between doughboy and douche.
Maybe I’m dense, but I remain mystified by this sweeping trend toward “eating down the fridge,” which has now spread to what was once a relatively legitimate news outlet. I could see the Porcine Pantload needing to take a week off from grocery shopping, given that he could live off the fat on a forearm alone for a good three or four months. But I’ll say it again: What in the name of Wegman’s is the point of abstaining from supporting your neighborhood grocery or Greenmarket, where fish will otherwise be rotting on the ice, greens decaying in the produce aisle, milk curdling in the dairy case? If the exercise is in learning how to use all of what you buy, there are far saner ways to recalibrate a shopping list. (Did someone say Epi Log?) And if you blow through all your mayonnaise and capers and mustard, get ready for some serious sticker-price shock when you head out to replenish. As the New Yorker’s recent piece on credit cards pointed out, when Americans put the brake on spending, “Every little bit hurts.” Using up cornichons rather than buying fresh cucumbers is like spending all the cash from under the mattress. Only in overfed America would something so idiotic be encouraged.
I thought it would be hard for the Porcine Pantload to top his beyond-absurd scheme to separate fools from their mega-money with classes on one of the most elementary forms of communication. Could he do a fat book on healthful eating, maybe? (Think about his hips, if you dare: Every extra pound adds five pounds of stress on joints.) But it’s worse: He apparently had a ridiculous notion that people should give up food shopping and draw down their reserves. And the point was? To starve the stores and let fish rot on the ice and mesclun wilt in the bins? To kneecap the economy even more? To impose discipline while food banks are overrun? I mean, really. This sounds like going off on a two-hour sail and eating all the provisions on the way out. What happens when you’re stranded on the island? Well, I guess you’re supposed to blog about it on PhatPhuck. Pompously, of course. So all the little people can vicariously suffer your deprivation.
Speaking of bit players who are always the heroes in their own stories, the pantload whose schtick is “self-worth through girth” has some nerve pontificating about the tired routine the Maroons still trot out. That’s like the shit calling the Shinola black.