Sunday, January 07, 2007
If you murder Rachael Ray...
...I will fuck you. Or if you don't want to fuck me, I'll find someone you DO want to fuck and persuade him/her to fuck you. In any event, I'd rather take out a monetary contract on Rachael Ray, but since I'm poorer than an orphan in a Charles Dickens book, I'll have to offer sexual favors instead since they're free. All I want is Racheal Ray gone. Marooning her on a desert island, or bricking her into your wine cellar a la The Cask of Amontillado, would be acceptable alternatives if you're too squeamish to commit actual homicide.
In case you don't know who Rachael Ray is, she's the most annoying bitch on the face of the earth. She started with this show on the Food Network that involved eating in restaurants for less than $40 a day. Then she got did this "30-minute meals" cooking show, and now she has a daytime talk show. She is like the All-American girl next door, except she sounds like she just sucked an entire bunch of helium balloons and injected liquid amphetamine. Every time you see her, she has this manic grin and crazy look. I feel uneasy looking at her, because she could either show me how to make mac-n-cheese from scratch in 30 minutes, or rip my throat out with those gargantuan teeth she's constantly baring.
My family is decidedly anti-Rachael Ray. When I was home for the holidays, my brother Lil' Tevie informed me that he holds a lifelong grudge against her ever since she and Mario Batali beat Bobby Flay and Lil' Tevie's object of lust Giada de Laurentiis in the team cranberry battle on "Iron Chef America." (I told Lil' Tevie that if breasts and/or disproportionately large heads were a criteria for judging, Giada would have taken it hands down, but this did not console him.) My dad declared that she was too perky, and my mother said that she couldn't stand her voice. I say all of the above. However, what I saw last week amped my level of hatred from where I just change the channel when I see Racheal Ray to fantasizing about different ways to brutally murder her.
I was at the grocery store, and was doing just fine stocking up on frozen pizza, beer, sausages, various cheeses, and other Razzy refrigerator staples. The music they had on in the store was this sexy saxophone number. Not like the Kenny G type of friendly, unthreatening, easy-on-the-ears sax, but the sensual, sort-of dirty type that is always on in Skinemax erotic thrillers from the 80s. I almost expected to see Shannon Tweed come sauntering seductively up the pet food aisle in a negligee and start taking off her fishnets and throwing them hither and thither over the bags of Healthy Weight Beneful. I was in a pretty good mood, as I would be replenishing my fridge and getting my handsome, perfect, sweet, wonderful Caesar back from the dogsitter when I got home. Then I went to check out, and came completely unhinged.
The Washington Heights Gristede's where I was shopping is often like a third-world live poultry market at the checkout. There are no discernible organized lines, people cut in front of each other constantly, the cashiers shout at the paying customers in rapid Dominican Spanish, the credit/debit card machines are frequently out of order, and it's general pandemonium. As I was being jostled in this madness, I looked to the magazine racks for solace. I was hoping to see the celebrity trash talking headlines in Star, or (more likely) the Spanish language gossip rag Mira!. Unfortunately, neither of these, nor any other decent publication was populating the magazine racks. They were filled ENTIRELY with copies of this glossy publication:
Yes, Rachael Ray has a magazine, Everyday with Rachael Ray. Like her buddy, asshole rich person and closeted lesbian Oprah, Rachael Ray decided to publish a monthly glossy devoted entirely to herself and her allegedly useful tips on how to plan a fucking picnic and have a DIY spa party. I don't need to see this smarmy bitch riding a Vespa side-saddle and telling me how to execute a "breezy" recipe. I don't need this bitch to make a shopping list for me, I don't need this bitch to smile aggressively at me, and I certainly don't need this bitch to advise me on how to properly road-trip. There's only one thing I need from Rachael Ray, and that is for her to FUCKING DISAPPEAR.
Since Rachael Ray now has an apparently successful daytime talk show (successful because it has yet to be cancelled), I suppose she fancies herself a media mogul. Presumably there are people who enjoy experiencing her frightening cheerfulness, since Rachael Ray magazines and TV shows keep getting greenlighted, and showing up where Mira! should be in my fucking Gristedes. This has to stop. If I don't get any takers on my sex-for-the-death-of-Rachael-Ray proposition, I'll strongly consider taking out a classified ad in Soldier of Fortune magazine or asking around on some website for freelance militia enthusiast/mercenaries. Rachael Ray must die.
In case you don't know who Rachael Ray is, she's the most annoying bitch on the face of the earth. She started with this show on the Food Network that involved eating in restaurants for less than $40 a day. Then she got did this "30-minute meals" cooking show, and now she has a daytime talk show. She is like the All-American girl next door, except she sounds like she just sucked an entire bunch of helium balloons and injected liquid amphetamine. Every time you see her, she has this manic grin and crazy look. I feel uneasy looking at her, because she could either show me how to make mac-n-cheese from scratch in 30 minutes, or rip my throat out with those gargantuan teeth she's constantly baring.
My family is decidedly anti-Rachael Ray. When I was home for the holidays, my brother Lil' Tevie informed me that he holds a lifelong grudge against her ever since she and Mario Batali beat Bobby Flay and Lil' Tevie's object of lust Giada de Laurentiis in the team cranberry battle on "Iron Chef America." (I told Lil' Tevie that if breasts and/or disproportionately large heads were a criteria for judging, Giada would have taken it hands down, but this did not console him.) My dad declared that she was too perky, and my mother said that she couldn't stand her voice. I say all of the above. However, what I saw last week amped my level of hatred from where I just change the channel when I see Racheal Ray to fantasizing about different ways to brutally murder her.
I was at the grocery store, and was doing just fine stocking up on frozen pizza, beer, sausages, various cheeses, and other Razzy refrigerator staples. The music they had on in the store was this sexy saxophone number. Not like the Kenny G type of friendly, unthreatening, easy-on-the-ears sax, but the sensual, sort-of dirty type that is always on in Skinemax erotic thrillers from the 80s. I almost expected to see Shannon Tweed come sauntering seductively up the pet food aisle in a negligee and start taking off her fishnets and throwing them hither and thither over the bags of Healthy Weight Beneful. I was in a pretty good mood, as I would be replenishing my fridge and getting my handsome, perfect, sweet, wonderful Caesar back from the dogsitter when I got home. Then I went to check out, and came completely unhinged.
The Washington Heights Gristede's where I was shopping is often like a third-world live poultry market at the checkout. There are no discernible organized lines, people cut in front of each other constantly, the cashiers shout at the paying customers in rapid Dominican Spanish, the credit/debit card machines are frequently out of order, and it's general pandemonium. As I was being jostled in this madness, I looked to the magazine racks for solace. I was hoping to see the celebrity trash talking headlines in Star, or (more likely) the Spanish language gossip rag Mira!. Unfortunately, neither of these, nor any other decent publication was populating the magazine racks. They were filled ENTIRELY with copies of this glossy publication:
Yes, Rachael Ray has a magazine, Everyday with Rachael Ray. Like her buddy, asshole rich person and closeted lesbian Oprah, Rachael Ray decided to publish a monthly glossy devoted entirely to herself and her allegedly useful tips on how to plan a fucking picnic and have a DIY spa party. I don't need to see this smarmy bitch riding a Vespa side-saddle and telling me how to execute a "breezy" recipe. I don't need this bitch to make a shopping list for me, I don't need this bitch to smile aggressively at me, and I certainly don't need this bitch to advise me on how to properly road-trip. There's only one thing I need from Rachael Ray, and that is for her to FUCKING DISAPPEAR.
Since Rachael Ray now has an apparently successful daytime talk show (successful because it has yet to be cancelled), I suppose she fancies herself a media mogul. Presumably there are people who enjoy experiencing her frightening cheerfulness, since Rachael Ray magazines and TV shows keep getting greenlighted, and showing up where Mira! should be in my fucking Gristedes. This has to stop. If I don't get any takers on my sex-for-the-death-of-Rachael-Ray proposition, I'll strongly consider taking out a classified ad in Soldier of Fortune magazine or asking around on some website for freelance militia enthusiast/mercenaries. Rachael Ray must die.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, ranting, retard rage, sluts
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If I had a wine cellar, Little Miss "Yum-O" would be bricked in right now. Instead, she's on my box of Triscuits, staring at me with her hebephrenic grin and her beady little "30-minute" eyes. Is nothing sacred?
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# posted by 
: 1/08/2007 1:25 AM
: 1/08/2007 1:25 AM 
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