To whom it may concern: If you want to buy this marvelous machine for me, I will name it after you Coors Stadium-style. So if you’ve always wanted to see a “Jim Smith Memorial” something or other, you’ve come to the right place.
It’s fucking cold outside. For those who don’t keep track of these things, or who live in parts of the world where there are no distinguishable seasons, “fucking cold” is approximately 19 degrees. Above 20 is merely “cold,” while below 19 is “butt-ass cold.” Negative degrees, which are predicted here in the next day or two, mean those of us in the Northern U.S. will literally be in the innermost circle of hell. Don’t worry, the body heat you generate as you run to and fro dodging Satan’s 3 heads will help keep you alive. Until Satan drops Judas and eats you.
When it’s fucking cold like this, there’s only one thing you can do: BRAISE THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF SOMETHING. Anything, really. Have I mentioned it’s 19 degrees?
Hung joins us this week, as do live chickens. Toby Young continues his stint as guest judge, and it’s a toss-up whether his pithy remarks will continue to amuse me, or whether he will Bourdain-ify before my disappointed eyes. Continue reading
No one, because no one actually came here via the phrase “fuck the chicken,” which is disappointing in a bizarre kind of way. But below the jump are the top 10 most icky from the past day or two. This is what you get for having a pottymouth, kids. Clean up your acts.
Which one is your favorite?
I may have played the insanity card to wuss out on really challenging myself, but our participants didn’t. Behold, our brave souls (and don’t skip the poll at the bottom):
I was going to write this up last night, but then I went to a party that I’d only intended to stay at for an hour or two and ended up getting home at 3:30. AND I had like a whole beer and a half, so you know I was in no shape to do anything. When we walked in the front door, we were violently assaulted by the smell of garlic. You’d think we’d have been used to the smell, which had been slowly seeping from our pores all evening and is probably embedded in our neighbors’ godawful sofa*, but nothing prepares you for walking into a house in which someone has cooked chicken with 50 cloves of garlic earlier in the day.
That’s right, 50 cloves. TAKE THAT, FRENCH PEOPLE. Here in the gold ol’ U.S of A, the dial goes up to 50.
*They know their sofa is terrible, so maybe this will be incentive for them to finally ditch it.