Hey Alex, what’s shaking? Based on that look, I’d guess the parts between your legs.
EEEW.
Remember your fourth grade teacher? Mine was called — spelled phonetically to protect the guilty (me) and because I don’t know how to spell — Ms. Hipsch. Rhymes with bitch, which gets good mileage if you’re in fourth grade and your instructor commutes upward from the seventh level of hell.
Alex Guarnaschelli is sort of like the fourth grade teacher of food. Its all fun and games one minute, and the next you’re catching hell on the chopping block for tossing too much bacon grease over your bacon-garnished ice cream and endive. It wears about the same, too; at first, you’re almost attracted to it (everyone’s a masochist, deep down; those feelings get pretty complicated when you’re in fourth grade, believe you me), but by the third or fourth day you’re ready to go all Poltergeist vomit creature on her ass.
So pardon me for assuming that Alex’s erotic facial expressions would be the worst of the Food Network bunch. Untrue, reveals Food Network Humor. Turns out everyone looks pretty silly putting on an O-face over a bite of paella (or, in Rachel Ray’s case, a ham and cheese sandwich).
The Rob Gordon character in High Fidelity remarks, “fetish properties are not unlike porn. I’d feel bad taking [vinyl geeks'] money, if I wasn’t, well, kinda one of them.” That’s more or less the driving principle behind the Food Network. It’s salivary gland masturbation for people who can’t cook, and the satisfaction level is roughy the culinary equivelant of wacking off — less mess, but the emptiness is the same and the incidence of drool is roughly equal (am I doing it wrong?). They’d feel bad too, if they weren’t, well, worse than the rest of us.
To think of Alex Guarnaschelli having a -gasm of any sort makes my insides turn to ice.
EEEW.
Remember your fourth grade teacher? Mine was called — spelled phonetically to protect the guilty (me) and because I don’t know how to spell — Ms. Hipsch. Rhymes with bitch, which gets good mileage if you’re in fourth grade and your instructor commutes upward from the seventh level of hell.
Alex Guarnaschelli is sort of like the fourth grade teacher of food. Its all fun and games one minute, and the next you’re catching hell on the chopping block for tossing too much bacon grease over your bacon-garnished ice cream and endive. It wears about the same, too; at first, you’re almost attracted to it (everyone’s a masochist, deep down; those feelings get pretty complicated when you’re in fourth grade, believe you me), but by the third or fourth day you’re ready to go all Poltergeist vomit creature on her ass.
So pardon me for assuming that Alex’s erotic facial expressions would be the worst of the Food Network bunch. Untrue, reveals Food Network Humor. Turns out everyone looks pretty silly putting on an O-face over a bite of paella (or, in Rachel Ray’s case, a ham and cheese sandwich).
The Rob Gordon character in High Fidelity remarks, “fetish properties are not unlike porn. I’d feel bad taking [vinyl geeks'] money, if I wasn’t, well, kinda one of them.” That’s more or less the driving principle behind the Food Network. It’s salivary gland masturbation for people who can’t cook, and the satisfaction level is roughy the culinary equivelant of wacking off — less mess, but the emptiness is the same and the incidence of drool is roughly equal (am I doing it wrong?). They’d feel bad too, if they weren’t, well, worse than the rest of us.