Say what you will about Martha Stewart, she did the time after getting rooked into doing the crime. Too bad the pubic justice of the Supreme Coke will never do the same — even though in not disclosing his wife’s serious income from wingnut think tanks, he appears to have violated the very same law that sent the beacon of style to the hoosegow. I do wonder why she’s slapping her name on the made-in-China crap I got for xmas (which I suspect was re-gifted, because who would keep a timer so flimsy, or a tea infuser so cheesily overwrought?) But at least that’s better than taking money through the back door of your wife. In an ideal world, the silent one would be condemned to an eternity of “singing and dancing” while baking, on a channel no one watches.
Post Category → we just live in it
Bottom of the well
Speaking of booze and the simian’s trashing of America, I realized things are much, much worse than the news pages let on when I flipped through the weekly coupons and saw $5- and $2-off options for . . . “spirits.” WTF? Coupons are what you use to cut the price of toilet paper and Ziploc bags, not essential nutrients. It was weird enough when all the snooty wine shops I frequent started lining every square inch next to the cash register with airline-size shots of hard alcohol for a quick buck. But rebates for Tanqueray and Johnnie Walker? Instead of investing in an apple cart I should be learning how to make hard cider. Maybe even applejack.
Less qualified, more gagging
The craziest notions sometimes turn up in my writeme inbox. The weirdest lately was the email promoting cheeses to eat while indulging in the Olympics. Which got me wondering if there has ever been a bigger gap between object and affection. Does anyone really sit in front of the teevee watching the beach volleyball competition and nibbling on taleggio in between schmears of Brie de Nangis? Look at the Fan in Chief, for war crimes’ sake. We’re talking Velveeta on a pretzel at best.
You say Katonah
You know you’re getting ancient when hors d’oeuvres from Martha’s first books are passed and they don’t taste ridiculous. We were all wide-mouthed and innocent a quarter of a century ago, before the world was so awash in food information 24/7 that cartoon characters could be hired to throw ingredients around ridiculously on the teevee. Almost every other aspect of the quick roast at high heat, though, hit its mark, whether the Bitch wine poured beforehand or the explanation of why a fume blanc was served (Robert Mondavi coined the name — a spin on pouilly-fume — but was not so greedy as to try to trademark it). The Control Queen should only have been savvy enough to realize the best rule in pushover partying is very simple: First you marinate the neighbors.
Good for the goose
So Martha Stewart is now doing wine. Bottled water must be so over. But her latest venture is still a reminder of who pays for sins in the land of equality. She got caught in a lie and went to jail. Scooter was convicted of multiple national security whoppers and walked. In a just world, he would be baking pretzels in hell. I guess we have to settle for seeing her keep on cashing in with Gallo.