A Rare Dose of Instant Karma

For a brief time last night, Brett Austin surpassed Debbie Lee on my Food Network Star Douchemeter. Not just surpass her, but blow by her like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner across the Bonneville Salt Flats. What cretinous, amoral, pathetic boob is so insecure in his manhood--not to mention his culinary skills--that he offers to help a contestant plate and then uses that offer and the acceptance thereof as proof that the contestant he helped lacks the skills to compete with the rest of them?

"I think me and Teddy's help saved the dish."

You spooned the scrambled eggs into a rammikin.. That's it. You didn't have a jot to do with the cooking of the dish. You extended the offer of help to her. She didn't ask for any help and only accepted because she didn't want to be perceived as a snotty, ungrateful ass. If you thought that your "help" with the oh-so-daunting task of spooning eggs onto a plate would give her an unfair advantage, then, why, prithee, did you offer to help her at all? Let her flounder if your sense of fair play is so grievously wounded by the thought of having compassion. Let her flounder, step on her head, and gloat when she fails. Don't pretend to care about her and then attempt to save your own ass by throwing her under the bus when Bobby Flay points out you have the poise and panache of an anal wart. Be an honest tool, at least.

His ploy failed, by the by. He was sent packing. I can only assume that the judges were as put off by his whining and finger-pointing as I was and decided to nip his histrionics in the bud rather than endure any more. His food, according to them, was among the best of the night, but since they're looking for a personality to sell the network as well as the food, he wasn't up to snuff.

With him gone, Debbie can safely resume her place as Queen of the Cuntwaffles, which she promises to do with elan next week if the promos are even half-true.


Roomie is a big damn hero today because he unclogged the shower drain with a little help from the Internet and a wire hanger. After a few minutes of fruitless fiddling, he pulled a wad of soap-scummed hair the size of a small gerbil from the drain, and the water receded with a triumphant glug. I can finally shower, and thank God, too, because I have class tomorrow, and there was no way I could've gotten by with a sponge bath, not with four days of biological sludge to wash from the various cracks and crevices and temperatures in the 100s. He's my hero, and he knows it, too, because he spent the rest of the morning with a swagger in his step.

His hero status was further cemented by the smiting of a bug that shot from beneath the laundry pile and made a beeline for the living room. He was summarily squashed beneath a paper and banished to the garbage can. Shortly thereafter, Roomie rewarded his labors with lunch, while I reluctantly went to mine by starting my final paper for Central Asian History.

I hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. I would rather gnaw off my own nipple than write one more word of a comparative essay about the administration of Central Asian government under Tsarist and Soviet rule. I would rather lock myself in a broom closet with a cadre of dyspeptic German tourist who've just come from the rotkohl and sauerkraut buffet, but I will finish this evil, rank bastard of a paper, because when I do, I'm done until August and can spend my summer writing and eating ice cream and squeeing over Rammstein.

Seventy-two hours to freedom. I can do this. I can.

A Rare Dose of Instant Karma

For a brief time last night, Brett Austin surpassed Debbie Lee on my Food Network Star Douchemeter. Not just surpass her, but blow by her like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner across the Bonneville Salt Flats. What cretinous, amoral, pathetic boob is so insecure in his manhood--not to mention his culinary skills--that he offers to help a contestant plate and then uses that offer and the acceptance thereof as proof that the contestant he helped lacks the skills to compete with the rest of them?

"I think me and Teddy's help saved the dish."

You spooned the scrambled eggs into a rammikin.. That's it. You didn't have a jot to do with the cooking of the dish. You extended the offer of help to her. She didn't ask for any help and only accepted because she didn't want to be perceived as a snotty, ungrateful ass. If you thought that your "help" with the oh-so-daunting task of spooning eggs onto a plate would give her an unfair advantage, then, why, prithee, did you offer to help her at all? Let her flounder if your sense of fair play is so grievously wounded by the thought of having compassion. Let her flounder, step on her head, and gloat when she fails. Don't pretend to care about her and then attempt to save your own ass by throwing her under the bus when Bobby Flay points out you have the poise and panache of an anal wart. Be an honest tool, at least.

His ploy failed, by the by. He was sent packing. I can only assume that the judges were as put off by his whining and finger-pointing as I was and decided to nip his histrionics in the bud rather than endure any more. His food, according to them, was among the best of the night, but since they're looking for a personality to sell the network as well as the food, he wasn't up to snuff.

With him gone, Debbie can safely resume her place as Queen of the Cuntwaffles, which she promises to do with elan next week if the promos are even half-true.


Roomie is a big damn hero today because he unclogged the shower drain with a little help from the Internet and a wire hanger. After a few minutes of fruitless fiddling, he pulled a wad of soap-scummed hair the size of a small gerbil from the drain, and the water receded with a triumphant glug. I can finally shower, and thank God, too, because I have class tomorrow, and there was no way I could've gotten by with a sponge bath, not with four days of biological sludge to wash from the various cracks and crevices and temperatures in the 100s. He's my hero, and he knows it, too, because he spent the rest of the morning with a swagger in his step.

His hero status was further cemented by the smiting of a bug that shot from beneath the laundry pile and made a beeline for the living room. He was summarily squashed beneath a paper and banished to the garbage can. Shortly thereafter, Roomie rewarded his labors with lunch, while I reluctantly went to mine by starting my final paper for Central Asian History.

I hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. I would rather gnaw off my own nipple than write one more word of a comparative essay about the administration of Central Asian government under Tsarist and Soviet rule. I would rather lock myself in a broom closet with a cadre of dyspeptic German tourist who've just come from the rotkohl and sauerkraut buffet, but I will finish this evil, rank bastard of a paper, because when I do, I'm done until August and can spend my summer writing and eating ice cream and squeeing over Rammstein.

Seventy-two hours to freedom. I can do this. I can.