Cooking Up a Reality Shitstorm!
I have finally, at long last, found my ideal reality show - beyond the original immaculate Survivor prototype for which I will forever base my faithful allegiance, of course. Quite possibly – this may be the best show in the world! Well, at least for what’s on TV right now anyways.
This particular formulated reality-based hokum evolves around another the two very things that I hold dear in this lifetime: good food, and a sarcastic, cranky-ass master chef, hard as his Teflon frying pan, dolling out the barbed sarcasms and thinly-veiled insults to whoever might happen to pass within a hot towel length of his foulness.
This show of which I speak is called “Hell’s Kitchen”, another restaurant-themed contestant elimination competition, is based around the world-renowned chef, and even more renowned ill-tempered twat, Gordon Ramsey.
For those of you not in the know, Gordon Ramsey is a cross between Julia Child and a velociraptor. The whole appeal of the entire program for me lies in watching the vicious Chef Ramsey verbally assault some poor, ill-equipped rhubarb with bitch tits named Dewberry*, who only yesterday was a mere pastry chef at some local bakery.
Welcome to the Big Time, fatboy.
This is PRIMO entertainment! It’s like watching a WWE wrestler debate a devout Mormon on the virtues of opening cans of whoop-ass. Who the fuck cares how the show is supposed to be played or who is winning over who – just line up a bunch of incompetent retards in white chef jackets, turn them loose in a kitchen, and let Gordon Ramsey hurl the insults at them, and maybe a few bricks for good measure, for the show’s entire hour of airtime each time they happen to displease him – which is often.
Not even the restaurant customers are safe from his aggressive mood swings. No one escapes Chef Ramsey’s wrath once he’s pissed – and he is seldom in a good mood. Restaurant patrons and dinners are also turned away from his domain with a tongue-lashing that could be more expected from a drunken merchant marine.
“Excuse me, matre’de. Could you please show these ladies back to the plastic surgery ward please? Thank you - fuck off.”
Now this is reality-fucking television!
Any show involving a cantankerous, Scottish taskmaster with a poison tongue ripping into overbearing, self-righteous, elitist snobs like a monkey ripping into a coconut, is okay in my books!
I like this for the same reason I enjoy my other guilty pleasure – Judge Judy. I couldn’t give two shits who wins and looses, just that everybody involved receives a liberal dosage of harsh “tell-it-like-it-is” reality mixed with a few well-timed insults and personal criticisms.
Basically, given the subservient nature of my own employ, I can revel fully in the living vicariously through someone in some form of authority or power who can speak freely, and critically, without due repercussion.
GOD, I’D LOVE THAT!
Of course, I wouldn’t have many friends and would live alone in a shack in the forest – but I’d sure be one happy motherfucker, let me tell you!
Likewise, I couldn’t give a damn what delectable dish the apprentice chefs are struggling to prepare or what culinary marvels Chef Ramsey is creating in Hell’s Kitchen, just as long as he continues to have free reign to rain down sweet holy terror on the shows participants.
I would order just a $20 glass of water, just as long as it got me a front row table to the kitchen onslaught, and see the very intergalactic culinary meltdowns explode from Chef Ramsey, as the episode progresses.
THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!
* Honestly, who in their right fucking mind would EVER name their child “Dewberry”? They should be locked up and prevented from procreating for the remainder of their lives. To earn Ramsey’s distasteful wrath, his only failing (besides those enormous Meatloaf bitch tits) was having slightly burned the rice risotto.
This particular formulated reality-based hokum evolves around another the two very things that I hold dear in this lifetime: good food, and a sarcastic, cranky-ass master chef, hard as his Teflon frying pan, dolling out the barbed sarcasms and thinly-veiled insults to whoever might happen to pass within a hot towel length of his foulness.
This show of which I speak is called “Hell’s Kitchen”, another restaurant-themed contestant elimination competition, is based around the world-renowned chef, and even more renowned ill-tempered twat, Gordon Ramsey.
For those of you not in the know, Gordon Ramsey is a cross between Julia Child and a velociraptor. The whole appeal of the entire program for me lies in watching the vicious Chef Ramsey verbally assault some poor, ill-equipped rhubarb with bitch tits named Dewberry*, who only yesterday was a mere pastry chef at some local bakery.
Welcome to the Big Time, fatboy.
This is PRIMO entertainment! It’s like watching a WWE wrestler debate a devout Mormon on the virtues of opening cans of whoop-ass. Who the fuck cares how the show is supposed to be played or who is winning over who – just line up a bunch of incompetent retards in white chef jackets, turn them loose in a kitchen, and let Gordon Ramsey hurl the insults at them, and maybe a few bricks for good measure, for the show’s entire hour of airtime each time they happen to displease him – which is often.
Not even the restaurant customers are safe from his aggressive mood swings. No one escapes Chef Ramsey’s wrath once he’s pissed – and he is seldom in a good mood. Restaurant patrons and dinners are also turned away from his domain with a tongue-lashing that could be more expected from a drunken merchant marine.
“Excuse me, matre’de. Could you please show these ladies back to the plastic surgery ward please? Thank you - fuck off.”
Now this is reality-fucking television!
Any show involving a cantankerous, Scottish taskmaster with a poison tongue ripping into overbearing, self-righteous, elitist snobs like a monkey ripping into a coconut, is okay in my books!
I like this for the same reason I enjoy my other guilty pleasure – Judge Judy. I couldn’t give two shits who wins and looses, just that everybody involved receives a liberal dosage of harsh “tell-it-like-it-is” reality mixed with a few well-timed insults and personal criticisms.
Basically, given the subservient nature of my own employ, I can revel fully in the living vicariously through someone in some form of authority or power who can speak freely, and critically, without due repercussion.
GOD, I’D LOVE THAT!
Of course, I wouldn’t have many friends and would live alone in a shack in the forest – but I’d sure be one happy motherfucker, let me tell you!
Likewise, I couldn’t give a damn what delectable dish the apprentice chefs are struggling to prepare or what culinary marvels Chef Ramsey is creating in Hell’s Kitchen, just as long as he continues to have free reign to rain down sweet holy terror on the shows participants.
I would order just a $20 glass of water, just as long as it got me a front row table to the kitchen onslaught, and see the very intergalactic culinary meltdowns explode from Chef Ramsey, as the episode progresses.
THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!
* Honestly, who in their right fucking mind would EVER name their child “Dewberry”? They should be locked up and prevented from procreating for the remainder of their lives. To earn Ramsey’s distasteful wrath, his only failing (besides those enormous Meatloaf bitch tits) was having slightly burned the rice risotto.
2 Comments:
Sounds like my time in culinary school!
I liked Ramsay in "Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares" but I haven't heard of this one at all.
my sides hurt
good one CTRM
:)
--Kerri
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