UPCOMING EVENTS

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Chef Badass Tells All!

I'm a fucking chef.

That's right, I said 'fuck'. Did that scare you? You didn't think chefs used naughty words like that, did you? Lemme tell you something, Skippy. I ain't some mamby-pamby, limp-wristed omelet-tosser in a poofy toque. I am 100 percent American bad ass. I breathe hickory-smoked fire and shit paring knives.

When I cook, worlds fucking end. In your mouth.

I'm the head chef at Eat Shit And Die down on Ludlow Street. Maybe you recognize me from my hit reality Food Network show, "Eat Me". Thirteen wanna-be's whined and bitched and moaned while I taunted them mercilessly to see who had the onions to be my sous-chef.

When it came down to the last two contestants, I hit each of them over the head with a bottle of Mickey's Big Mouth, flipped off the camera, and stormed off the set. Nobody won, except me, because I didn't have to employ any of those culinary school fucktards.

You know where I learned how to cook? On the street, motherfucker. I mean, literally, on the street. When I was a kid, I used to fry eggs and bacon on the asphalt with a magnifying glass.

When people ask me what kind of food we serve at my restaurant, I punch them in their fat mouths. I make sure I hit 'em right in the teeth with my skull and crossbows signet ring.

If they get up and can ask me the same question again through all the blood and busted incisors, I tell them that we serve The Three B's: Blood, Burnt, and Bullshit Comma Complete Lack Of.

There are three things on my menu: Steak, Steak, and a Cockpunch. You get the Cockpunch if you ask for anything but steak.

Does my undying fealty to steak scare you?

Your steak options are as follows. You can get it charred to a shriveled, blackened, glistening mess. You can get it just ripped off the flank of a still-living Holstein, pink and quivering. Or you can get the fuck out of my restaurant.

For an extra 70 bucks, I will cook your steak on the dual overhead cams of my custom Harley. I ride my bike into my kitchen every afternoon. I change the damn oil right next to the sauce pans. I might get some on your precious food. Go ahead, ask me if I give a shit.

Answer: I don't.

Has my insouciant intractability scared you yet?

Did I mention that hate vegetarians? Then I will mention it right here: Fuck you, you fucking granola hippie fucks. Man is a carnivore. You should yield to your primal urges. These losers try and tell me that we don't live in jungles and can make nutritional decisions based on taste and personal morality and not exclusively on mere survival. I tell them that bacon tastes good, and then I put out a cigarette in their eye.

My greatest dream is to beat a vegetarian to death using a vegan as a blunt object. Unfortunately, I don't think any vegans have enough meat on them to make an effective bludgeon.

And did I mention that I hate the Food Network? I will mention that as well: Fuck Rachel Ray in the pants. I know they aired my reality show, but that was before the network sold out. My stuff was too real for their processed, bullshit world. Plus, they caught me doing crank in the network commissary. Fucking narcs.

Oh yeah, by the way, I do drugs. Lots of them, all the time. Speed to get up for a long day in the kitchen. Downers to chill out when work is over. Coke to get back up for post-work partying. Plus, I have this really awesome shit that a vet gave me in lieu of payment for a meal; I think it's a sedative they use prep thoroughbreds for surgery. At the end of a long day of cooking, partying, and being the world's number bad ass chef, some horse tranquilizers really take the edge off.

Does my desire for illegal narcotics scare you?

And I ain't queer, neither. I know you're thinking, He's a chef, he's gotta be gay. Everyone thinks that, I know they do, even if they never say it or even imply it. You should see the tail I bring home every night. I got a list of conquests that would put Wilt Chamberlain to shame. 'Cause you know what they say about a man who knows his way around a kitchen: He also probably knows how to fuck lots of women.

Actually, they don't say that. I do. All the time.

Does my angry and defensive assertion of heterosexuality scare you?

Let me list a bunch of other things I hate: Lean Cuisine. Paris Hilton. Graham crackers. People who smile. The concept of flight. Artichokes. People who say I stole my schtick from Dennis Leary. People who say Dennis Leary stole his schtick from Bill Hicks. Chicks at bars who laugh when I tell them my job is being an American bad ass. That dick teacher at culinary school who told me my béarnaise sauce lacked subtlety. My pop for beating me with a rubber hose when I told him I wanted to cook. Tofu.

Does my hatred scare you?

Does anything I do scare you? If not, could you please pretend to be scared? Please?

Posted 06.13.07 09:30pm * Permalink

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