By Kirstin Kennedy
It was a definably hot August, mid-week, afternoon that we spent half asleep on the couch, moaning about the thirty minute work – out we had completed hours ago. There were open boxes of cereal and plates with pizza residue scattered across the floor, not to mention various DVD’s that we had watched at least fifteen times each. My skin melted to the dense fabric of the couch and my head pounded with heat and my assumed laziness. I look at Kennan; both eyes closed with the remote extending out of her hand, her mouth cracked just enough to let a fly in.
“What were we watching anyhow?” Again, I looked across the room. My dear friend and I are as characteristic as Holms and Watson, but without the exotic adventures, notable wit, and ability to solve anything beyond the decision of what to feast on. My eyes blurred to focus on the television as I fought the urge to continue on preemptive snooze. I made out that it was a show from the Food Network, some woman spoke with the most heinous voice I had ever heard. “What is this?” I questioned to unconscious ears. I would have rather heard Fran Drencher perform an opera than continue exposure to this cacophonous cook.
As I regained ability to perceive the situation, I focused on the sickening sound which had disrupted my mind. As my full vision returned from my afternoon hibernation, I saw a fearful sight before me. There she stood in her bright orange and blue kitchen with her freshman fifteen muffin top perturbing out of her too – tight jeans and her Jersey Shore faux tan. “We are gonna make Sammies!” exclaimed the loathsome creature on the tube as she pulled out an unnatural amount of unhealthy food from her baby – blue, 1960’s style refrigerator. Sammies? What the fuck are Sammies?
Kennan awakened, equally repulsed. Who did this psycho think she was, shortening the sacred title of a decent sandwich? And, really, why did she think it was so cool to use the acronym EVOO. Yes, Extra Virgin Olive Oil is, in fact, a mouthful, but there is nothing extraordinary about saying EVOO and I immediately resented her for it. Not to mention the ear – piercing sound of her voice, which in combination with food made me look down at our dirty plates with a churn in my stomach. Kennan and I there began a deep and fiery haltered for the one they call, Rachael Ray.
Never Google this celebrity cook, she has posted provocative pictures involving her in small amounts of clothing while consuming desserts. You won’t eat for a week. Never attempt to make her foods, not only are they odd concoctions that surly are appalling, they are terribly unhealthy and may cause you to only fit into black pantsuits, such as the creator wears on her talk show. Also, never attend her show life, as there is a strict business casual dress code that all attendees must follow or they are kicked out. Besides, you don’t want to provide profit for her self – made, indulgent industry. Most importantly, you must absolutely never result to using the lingo of this cooking tyrant. You are a far more creative and intellectual creature than such.
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