BlackShanglan
Silver-Tongued Papist
- Joined
- Jul 7, 2004
- Posts
- 16,888
Or rather, don't fuck Emeril. In fact, I would like very much for Mr. Lagasse never to experience a fuck or blow for the rest of his miserable, self-centered, egoistic existence.
(For those who will not yet have guessed, this thread has naturally to deal with food and the dangers of standing between me and the food of my choice.)
Our narrative begins with a bold yet dashing equine figure having finally made up its gender-blurred mind about the type of cookies to take to a friendly exchange tomorrow. "Ah!" thought our horsey hero(ine). "Pizelles! Of course. My grandmother makes them every Christmas. It will feel more like Christmas with a batch of anise-scented delights cooling on the counter." And so our protagonist trotted off to locate that indispensible device, a pizelle iron.
There are, in the small town in the large state that our charming equine tale-teller inhabits, exactly two pizelle irons. They are both in the same store, and of the same model. It's an excellent model; it comes with three seperate plates, enabling it to make waffles, pocket sandwiches, and - most importantly - pizelles. Our horse, overjoyed, pulls out the manual just to check that all functions desired are present, about to make the purchase.
And then it strikes. The bloated, malignant, repulsive spectre - ah no, not the Ghost of Christmas Future, much uglier - the phantom of Emeril Lagasse's ego.
For those not familiar with the individual himself, Mr. Lagasse is a television chef. Like many other television personalities, he finds it necessary to have a "catch phrase" - that prop of tiny minds unaccustomed to the rigors of spontaneous thought. His catch phase is, wittily enough, "Bam."
Mr. Lagasse (alas, alas) is also the endorser of the only pizelle iron for a hundred miles. And in his truly staggering self-absorption, he has seen fit to emblazon the surface of the iron - and thus each and every pizelle it will ever produce - with the word "BAM" in immense capital letters across the majority of its surface. He would, in fact, like every item produced from my kitchen to bear his charming ornament of oratory and serve as an advertisement both for his endorsed products and for his bloated, seething ego.
My home will have no pizelles for the holiday. There are some principles I cannot go back on, and a refusal to have the vulgar commonplaces of mendacious preening hacks emblazoned on the food I offer my guests is one of the them. However, like all those who suffer for their principles, I prefer to do it loudly.
Shanglan
(For those who will not yet have guessed, this thread has naturally to deal with food and the dangers of standing between me and the food of my choice.)
Our narrative begins with a bold yet dashing equine figure having finally made up its gender-blurred mind about the type of cookies to take to a friendly exchange tomorrow. "Ah!" thought our horsey hero(ine). "Pizelles! Of course. My grandmother makes them every Christmas. It will feel more like Christmas with a batch of anise-scented delights cooling on the counter." And so our protagonist trotted off to locate that indispensible device, a pizelle iron.
There are, in the small town in the large state that our charming equine tale-teller inhabits, exactly two pizelle irons. They are both in the same store, and of the same model. It's an excellent model; it comes with three seperate plates, enabling it to make waffles, pocket sandwiches, and - most importantly - pizelles. Our horse, overjoyed, pulls out the manual just to check that all functions desired are present, about to make the purchase.
And then it strikes. The bloated, malignant, repulsive spectre - ah no, not the Ghost of Christmas Future, much uglier - the phantom of Emeril Lagasse's ego.
For those not familiar with the individual himself, Mr. Lagasse is a television chef. Like many other television personalities, he finds it necessary to have a "catch phrase" - that prop of tiny minds unaccustomed to the rigors of spontaneous thought. His catch phase is, wittily enough, "Bam."
Mr. Lagasse (alas, alas) is also the endorser of the only pizelle iron for a hundred miles. And in his truly staggering self-absorption, he has seen fit to emblazon the surface of the iron - and thus each and every pizelle it will ever produce - with the word "BAM" in immense capital letters across the majority of its surface. He would, in fact, like every item produced from my kitchen to bear his charming ornament of oratory and serve as an advertisement both for his endorsed products and for his bloated, seething ego.
My home will have no pizelles for the holiday. There are some principles I cannot go back on, and a refusal to have the vulgar commonplaces of mendacious preening hacks emblazoned on the food I offer my guests is one of the them. However, like all those who suffer for their principles, I prefer to do it loudly.
Shanglan
