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The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso
Friday April 24, 2009
Something went horribly wrong recently on the internets, those pipes of informative speculation and slander, that series of omnipotent tubes. The incident may have been just chance, or maybe by design, but nevertheless, it should not have been allowed to happen.
For the very first time in post-industrial western society, a lone geeky teen in East Hell simultaneously Tweeted on Twitter, Peeped on Peeper, Flipped out on Flipper, Tripped on Tripper, Wanked on Wanker, Spanked on Spanker, and in a final desperate act, Doofed on Doofus.
Cody Roberts, aka C_Bob, had alienated himself from his family and had been, according to his mother, spending entirely too much time parked in front of his computer screen, but to her relief, he wasn’t playing Redneck RoadRage anymore. She simply failed to understand exactly what it was he spent every waking moment doing.
When he collapsed at his desk, foaming at the mouth and writhing in self-afflicted pain, his mother, panic stricken, called 911. Minutes later, he was piled onto a stretcher and paramedics rushed him to East Hell General.
The ER doctors had never seen anything like it. The kid lay in a fetal position, drooling and alternately crying out, “Leave Britney alone!” and “Who’s Britney?” and just before he slipped into unconsciousness, “Britney, leave me alone!”
Poor kid. The specialists who reconstructed his actions that day found that, his brain fried from Tripping, C_Bob revived himself with a 20 minute Peeping and Spanking session, then attempted the unthinkable. He Tweeted while Wanking. He was then advised in an angry instant message from the Flipper administrator that he had better leave the site immediately, and log on to Doofus, where he belonged. The beleaguered juvenile complied, logging on to Doofus, while keeping his other sites open. His first couple of Doofs drew a loud chorus of misspelled, unintelligible rants, threatening him and the horse he Doofed in on. It was too much information.
The kid had it coming. The city had lost so much bandwidth to this unsupervised miscreant, that it was necessary to create special wireless zones, hot spots where you could either Tweet and Peep, Spank and Wank, or Flip and Trip. You could Doof on Doofus anyplace, though. Everywhere was a Doofus zone.
He is in recovery, daily therapy consists of intense scared-straight sessions with former and assorted Peepers, Wankers, and Trippers.
The tubes are filling up, people! How much more of this can we take? I for one have had it. I do not intend to go quietly into a night of unmitigated Spanking. Unless, of course, I can have a Peep first.
| | Posted by Edward at 3:45 PM - | |
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Monday February 2, 2009
The slightly interesting headline pulls my attention from the Victoria’s Secret ad. I put down my coffee cup to peruse the article.
"Bocuse d’Or victory goes to Norwegian," it says.
I read further. The prize for this prestigious culinary competition was $26,000. Big deal. My 401k lost that much the last three months. Crap. Back to the Victoria’s Secret ad. Gawd, I love that spicy little...
Wait a minute. Did I just read that the American chef, some guy named Hollingsworth, had placed sixth? What was wrong, couldn’t he make a decent lutefisk? Or whatever the hell they eat in Norway.
USA! U... hold it, what kind of dish did he make? Here it is. Bacon wrapped rib eye. What, did he get the recipe from Outback? Oh, I see he also made a tart of beef fillet with celeriac. What the hell is celeriac? Is it made out of celery? Where does it come from? Probably grown in some obscure hidden urban garden in New Jersey. Of course I could Google it. They probably wouldn’t know, either.
The illustrious chef also whipped up some delectable endive marmalade? and braised beef cheeks. Beef cheeks? Beef cheeks, for chrissake. With turnips.
Right now I’m sticking a finger in my open mouth and faux gagging. This sucker apparently had an obsession with beef. There was also bresaola, which is a dried and salted beef smoked a la minute with apples, savoy cabbage and horseradish mousse.
Horseradish freakin’ mousse? Come on. I guess you’d have to develop a taste for it.
Back to Victoria and this one particular secret. Dammit, I can’t concentrate. Oh, well, time to put the paper down, take some Pepto Bismol and get dinner started. Y’know, I’m the cook in our house. I can’t wait till Lucy gets home. Boy, will she be surprised. I can hear her already.
"Hi honey, what’s cookin?"
"Thought I’d try something new."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I’m fixing beef cheeks with turnips, smothered in celeriac with a side of horseradish mousse."
"Sounds great!"
"I knew you’d appreciate the concept, but wait ‘til you taste it!"
I’m wagering it could be as good as last Sunday’s dinner. That glorious day, I made my signature dish, snail darter fin soup, served with a crunchy shiitake and bacon tapenade drizzled onto a bran muffin and presented on a flaming napkin. It was a real hit, except for the smoke damage. But all is forgiven.
Mr. Hollingsworth, keep on cookin’. Maybe next year you’ll whoop ass on that Norwegian chef. If, in the meantime, you need ideas, just call me.
www.bergenbugle.com | | Posted by Edward at 12:17 PM - | |
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Monday January 5, 2009
The studio audience was restless and yammering. The odor of hot cooking grease and freshly cut fruit alternately invaded each personal space, malodorous smidgens that heightened the other senses. If a ticket holder wasn’t hungry before he attended a live production of East Hell’s Kitchen, he certainly was by the time the contestants had finished whipping up their signature entrees.
The producer and one of three judges, Patches DeMayo, an ample figure secure in greybearded middle age, had recently relocated from Quaintsville to East Hell and taken the job as working master chef for Mandrake, the eatery that catered to the celebrity shmutz crowd and various hoi polloi. He was cantankerous to the point of abuse. If he didn’t agree with a contestant’s use of a seasoning, or style of presentation, or using the wrong preparation protocols, he would force his countenance into an ugly scowl, rip the apron from his elephantine torso, point his finger at the unfortunate cook’s head, and bully, berate, and belittle with all the lung power he could muster, the by now quaking and teary-eyed chef wannabe.
When the screaming subsided, he would announce in a soft voice, "No one in their right mind will ever hire you. Leave my kitchen at once."
The totally dissed and weeping loser would then be hustled out a side door, head covered with a dish towel, to a waiting taxi, as a dozen or so paparrazi snapped photo after photo.
This, the fourth season of East Hell’s Kitchen, was winding down. The final two contestants had survived six weeks of savage mental beatings by Chef DeMayo, who had been outvoted time and time again by the other judges, George Carlin and Pierce Brosnan.
Brosnan nearly always voted yes. He still wore the hat that covered the scar on his skull where brain cells were extracted for the intelligent chimp experiments. After long therapy, he was over the Daniel Craig thing. He felt good about himself.
Carlin didn’t really need this gig, but his posthumously published "Seven Things You Should Never Put in a Recipe" cookbook was still hot, and his presence on the panel kept the advertising revenue pouring into the CurryCorp network.
The set of East Hell’s Kitchen was simple: a stove, a refrigerator, a table with cutting board, a few utensils, and a sink. The stage crew always did the dishes after the show. There was, of course, a studio band, Bad Boy Boogie and the Screaming Doves. They would play at the opening of the show, the introduction of the contestants, and at dramatic moments when the judges tasted the finished entries.
The final two contestants were waiting in a side room for their cue, usually a stage manager who popped in the door, pointed at the next one up, and yelled. This was it. In an hour, the world would celebrate the next celebrity chef, and his books, aprons, apparel line and recipe archive would command vast sums of money and he would be booked for talk and cooking shows for the rest of his natural life.
It had come down to the two chefs left standing, both locals, Fletch Carnoustie, a caterer from North Bergen, and Chef Boioyoy, a kosher soupmaker from East Hell.
"Carnoustie! You’re on!"
Fletch was ready. He felt good about this, his latest recipe. In the culinary universe, it was a constant race to find new and different ways to combine the exotic and the mundane on the same plate. Seasonings came and went like migrating ducks, and the key to success was to find a flavor, any flavor, that no one had ever tasted. One an enterprising young cook could call his own.
He walked into the bright lights of the set, the Screaming Doves played the theme while he acknowledged the boisterous audience.
"Tell me," intoned Chef DeMayo, voice oozing sarcasm, "just what are you planning to wow us with tonight, Mr. Carnoustie?"
Fletch opened his mouth and belched. The three beers he had in his hotel room were kicking in. The crowd tittered, the drummer pounded his tom tom.
"It’s a new recipe I’ve developed. The main ingredient is fish."
"Well, man, don’t just stand there like some idiot. Get cooking!"
Fletch thought about punching DeMayo then and there but held off. Better to get this thing won first, then he’d...he’d...
He went to work. Food went from fridge into pans, precooked ingredients were warmed and placed carefully on chafing dishes and various saucers and platters, while cameras watched every move and, at least for the moment, the band sat silent.
A commercial break came and went, and Fletch took off his apron and signaled to the judges that his dish was ready to sample.
"It’s about time!" DeMayo shouted, pushing Fletch nearer and nearer to a violent reaction. "What sort of garbage is this, anyway?"
Fletch proudly displayed the tabletop, pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the dish, then picked up the fiery tray and carried it over to the judges table.
"This is my signature recipe, snail darter fin soup with a crunchy shiitake and bacon tapenade drizzled onto a bran muffin and served on a flaming napkin."
The crowd applauded as television viewers at home watched an ad for Mandrake float across the bottom of their screens.
"All right then, why don’t we have a taste?" DeMayo was actually smiling.
George Carlin whistled, winked at the camera, and gave a thumbs-up.
Pierce Brosnan took the tray that was offered him, blew out the flames, and slurped a spoonful of the soup. A split second later, his eyes rolled back, he stood up, opened his mouth, and tongue lolling, he began to drool. At the same moment, his right foot began to tap out a heel-toe-heel-toe mambo. This kept up for a full minute as the audience clapped in rhythm and the sax player noodled a tune, then he abruptly sat down.
"I’ll try the muffin now."
Apparently he was ok. He took a bite of the muffin, chewed thoughtfully, then held up his arms and shouted.
"Yes!"
George Carlin was up next. He pulled a straw from his shirt pocket, stuck it in his soup, and sipped. Within three seconds his eyes crossed and he stood and walked on wobbly legs to the center of the stage, where he collapsed, curling into a fetal position, slobbering and muttering to himself.
Chef DeMayo turned to Fletch, who stood with mouth agape, not quite believing what he was witnessing.
"I’m going to try a taste of this so-called soup of yours, and for your sake, let’s hope my reaction is not the same as Mr. Carlin’s."
He slid the remaining tray to the far end of the table, as far away from the other judges as possible, and with great ceremony, selected a shiny silver soup spoon from his boxed collection as the band played an ominous tone. He smiled, a disdainful, haughty, nose-in-the-air grimace, then sniffed the soup, and scooped a fingerful of the topping from the muffin, holding it up for all to see. At that very moment, George Carlin arose from his catatonia and zombie-walked on stiff legs back to the judge’s table and sat down.
"I’m ok," he announced to no one in particular. "Go ahead, Chef."
Chef DeMayo nodded, then sneering, took a slurping sip of the soup, then stuffed the fingerful of tapenade in his mouth, smacking his lips, then swallowed with gusto. He threw his beret into the front row, there was a mad scramble for it, unfolded chairs folded. He stared up toward the ceiling and uttered three words, "Klaatu Barada Nikto."
The studio audience responded with silence, broken only by the metallic click of digital cameras, and one nervous cough. Someone’s cellphone warbled.
He then repeated the words, emphasis on the first word. "Klaatu Barada Nikto."
The crowd started to murmur. "He’s nuts!" yelled somebody. Then, as Chef DeMayo removed his shirt, he repeated the words, this time the accent was on the second word. "Klaatu Barada Nikto."
The ticketholders were now visibly angry, half of them stood and booed.
"Klaatu Barada Nikto." This time the third word was emphasized.
Suddenly a shoe flew out of the now shouting and cursing crowd, narrowly missing the Chef. He continued to stare at the ceiling, oblivious to the to the rising bedlam as a virtual blizzard of shoes arced from the audience toward the stage. Pierce Brosnan was hit in the head by a size 14 Doc Marten, temporarily rendering him unconscious. Fletch reached up and caught a pricey red Ferragamo spike heel and tried it on. It fit. He bippity bopped around the stage wearing one high heel and one Air Nike, flexing his biceps. The chant began. "Fletch...Fletch...Fletch...Fleeetch!"
The building began to rumble and shake. Fletch’s dish fell to the stage floor. One wall suddenly caved inward, a cloud of dust billowed into the Hell’s Kitchen studio. Chef DeMayo lowered his heavenly gaze as the ten foot tall clanking robot stepped through the hole.
"Klaatu Barada Nikto." The voice was tinny and sonorous. The machine had one red glass orb glowing in the center of its face. "Klaatu Barada Nikto," it repeated, louder.
People ran screaming for the exits, while one courageous photojournalist, Marston Tidwell of the Bergen Bugle, stood his ground and filmed the calamity, his live feed to the Food Channel still hot. Chef Boioyoy was trampled by the stampeding crowd. He lay on the floor near the exit, feebly crawling in circles. His showcase meal, a cranberry quiche with a jalapeno and soy brulee, was left by the stage door, untouched. | | Posted by Edward at 11:47 PM - | |
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Sunday June 1, 2008
I want to make you cry. I’m not gonna pull your tail, call your momma the whore she is, or beat you mercilessly. I’m gonna bitch slap you in the brain with the elemental truths you’ve been ignoring for all this time, and do my very best to frighten you with your own stripped down ugliness. You’re gonna thank me for this, through those tears, for this close look up onto that messed up psychic plane of yours.
By the way, this session will cost you a hundred bucks, OK? Good.
For starters, suppose I told you I and about a hundred other people know all about that little fantasy you’ve been having and writing about on your supposedly locked work computer. Yeah, that one about your best friend’s wife. How you’ve pictured over and over in your dark little imagination your ultimate ecstacy when she crawls, all slinky and catlike up onto your reclining nakedness and hangs over your face, teasing you until you are ready to explode.
Well, guess what, asshole. She hates your guts more than any other of your worthless buddy’s friends. Oh, and another thing. Those delectable globes hanging in your creepy face have enough silicone in them to start an industrial giant bigger than Intel.
But you don’t see it, do you? You self-absorbed pig. I think that of all the people who know about this sick obsession of yours, the one who really matters most to you is your estranged daughter. Remember when she caught you calling that hooker when your wife and her mother was out of town? You had to stumble all over the place trying to explain to a teenager that you were talking for five minutes to someone who had dialed a wrong number. You idiot. She wasn’t fooled a bit. Why else do you think, in that feeble mind of yours, she ran off with that drummer with the tattooed testicles that he proudly displayed in public every chance he got? Here, look at this. I found this picture on the net. Here’s the happy couple, big shit-eating grins, arms around each other, his black and blue balls hanging right out there.
It’s all your fault, dammit!
When you finally, hopefully, pass on, she’ll most likely not bother to show up at your funeral. If, by some remote chance, she does, it will probably happen because her boyfriend and his decorated testicles drugged her and forced her to drag her emaciated, starving, hollow-eyed self to view you for the first and last time in ten years. There will be, I predict, intense competition among the celebrants, that’s right, celebrants, at your funeral to be the person who slams the coffin lid shut on your twisted ugly face and throw in the first shovelful of dirt.
Still not crying? Not even a twinge? You hopeless bastard.
Well, let me tell you about your stupid business.
You preyed on people’s insecurities for years, offered them false hopes and salvation. You told them you could see their otherworldly auras, even convinced those suckers that, for a fee, they could see them, too. Somehow, this centered them and improved their soulless and pitiful lives? Made existence meaningful?
You charlatan. If I had an assault rifle trained on your pock-ridden face right now, I’d have not one scintilla of guilt about pulling the trigger. Oh, and your wife wouldn’t either, just to let you know.
But back to your business. Claiming to be able to move chi from place to place? Person to person, like a transcendental phone call? Yeah, sure. I suggested that you call your little enterprise Chucky’s Chi but you didn’t care for that, did you? No, you decided to go with Harmony ‘N Bliss.
Sad.
What a crock. Tell you what, Chucky, I’ll trade you five universal energy chis for an earth, wind and fire chi. Or maybe a Chi Chi Rodriguez. How about a chia pet?
Those deluded victims put thousands of dollars in your bank accounts and apparently all you had to do was rent a hole in the wall for $500 a month, play some waterfall sounds, stick a few papier mache Buddhas in strategic places, and lay some foul-smelling grass mats on the floor so your "clients" could lie peacefully supine as you raped their wallets and filled their tiny brains with nonsense.
Still no tears? Suppose I told you that your beloved pet pooch was run over last night. That’s right. Wonder why he was missing this morning? I saw the truck that hit him. Big sucker. Didn’t even stop or slow down. Flattened him good. He twitched for a good five minutes.
Oh, what’s this? Hey, there, there. I’ve got a handkerchief for you. Wait, no I don’t!
Why don’t you just sit there and blubber, you overgrown sack of crap, until I leave the office. Oh, next session I’d like to talk about that melanoma on the back of your neck, right at the base of the skull. That’s right, those headaches didn’t come from nowhere.
Have a nice day. Bastard. I’ll see you next week. | | Posted by Edward at 3:30 PM - | |
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Monday April 14, 2008
Seven days ago, we briefly introduced the main candidates and the party constituencies they represent. This column, we will focus on issues that affect ordinary folks, particularly economic ones, and the candidates’ responses to the impending crisis. The era of feel-good legislation is over, and partisan bickering is heating up, as more and more citizens become disenfranchised, disappointed, and bitter, at the failure of their elected officials to address the needs of the middle class.
Senator Mulvaney, who has been the darling and a Tantric Twaddling League icon for the better part of two decades is embroiled in a nanny controversy. His wife Marla apparently hired an illegal alien maid, Eva Tantor, to clean his house and provide twaddling services for his sons Barker, 17 and a senior at North Bergen Prep, and Barry, 15 and a sophomore at Quaintsville Country Day Tech.
When asked on NBS Crosstalk by host Al Pente how he could possibly reconcile his actions with his anti-illegal alien rhetoric, he responded with a fanciful tale (interrupted by two Pepsi and Celebrex commercials) about fishing with his childhood friend Armando Noriega, thus skirting the issue and avoiding the question. Incredulously, he maintained the rapt attention of a conscripted audience of slack jawed supporters wearing twaddling hats, carrying mikes and cameras, all crowding the area near the podium, anxious to be near the dear leader.
When the spell he had cast began to wear off, a geeky cameraman for NBS zoomed in on a huge hairy mole on the Senator’s forehead, where the camera stayed for nearly 15 seconds. Just as America was getting its first real closeup of Senator Harrison Mulvaney, NBS executives cut the feed, taking NBS off the air for 26 minutes. A medley of infomercials filled in the rest of the news hour, and by the time it was over, most tv viewers had switched over to the National Alternative Martial Arts Championships, featuring whipmaster El Pinche Reynoso defending his title against challenger Ludwig Von Hipp, the Bavarian national champion.
Howard Felt, billionaire industrialist and erstwhile philanthropist, has made his money by leasing, for huge fees, environmentally safe, or green, technology patents to oil companies and government contractors, who then, according to his critics, don’t use them. His patents include exclusivity rights to Blue Stuff®, the cold fusion energy that could terminate our reliance on fossil fuels, and he has reluctantly agreed to release those technologies to the general public in small increments.
“To be suddenly pulled, with a loud slurping pop, from the oil teat that sustains us, is a sure bet for economic catastrophe and social unrest,” says Felt. “We certainly don’t want to upset the status quo just yet, but I promise you that there is light at the end of the tunnel, and a good economy is just around the corner. We are doing a good job with the natural resources we have.”
Not everyone agreed, however. Late this week, an inquiry into the current economic meltdown opened in the House Commerce Committee, chaired by Senator Mulvaney and stacked with supporters of Archibald Sneeth-Coverington, third party independent and spokesman for the Biggest Flag Party. Mayor of Templeton, Idaho, he is the proud owner of the largest collection of American flag lapel pins in the world.
“This one was worn by William Henry Harrison, 9th President of the USA”, Sneeth-Coverington said in an exclusive interview with Fox News. “Tragically, he died in 1841 after only 31 days in office”, he said. “I hope my presidency lasts a bit longer”, he added, winking impishly.
Sneeth-Coverington has called for a hands off policy concerning the economy, citing his conservative values of “leave it alone and let it die. Let it wither to the size of a golf ball so I can double bogey it all the way into last Thursday”.
Responding to the question of who should bear the blame for the current fiscal crisis, he adopted a not-my-fault posture. “Those people who went out and blew money on overpriced houses and gas hogging suv’s should be charged with negligience, but unfortunately, stupidity isn’t against the law”, said Sneeth-Coverington during the interview.
When asked to comment about hunger in America, he responded. “Starving people? What? That’s only hearsay, or haven’t you heard”? Later he added, “If anyone in this great country of mine is starving, they probably deserve it. Obviously, they’ve been twaddling and diddling far too much, and I can’t be responsible for that”.
To see firsthand the impact of the recent combined economic factors of inflation, wage stagnation, joblessness, skyrocketing cost of living, and loss of hope, the non-partisan Office of Budget Recovery selected a family at random to interview and report how ordinary American wage earners are coping.
Bill Horr, his wife Edith, and 4 children aged 3 to 9, live in Smallston, a suburb of Telstar City, Missouri, where Bill is employed as a factory worker for Contrail Industries, Inc., the world’s largest producer of ribobioflavinoids, used in everything from ketchup to bubble gum. Contrail has been eliminating jobs recently, and Bill believes that his job is on the line, should there be another round of cuts.
Edith works part time as a librarian for the city, and has watched and worried as money and resources for the library have dried up or been drastically reduced. She too, wonders how they will get by when the economy eventually collapses.
“What in hell are we supposed to do?”, says Bill. “I’ve lived here all my life. Telstar City has a long and proud history of Horrs living here. This town has had Horrs in government, Horrs on the school boards, and we even had a Horr who was a police chief. In fact, in a couple of weeks we will host our annual family reunion; this town and our house will be full of Horrs”!
more next week.
| | Posted by Edward at 12:27 AM - | |
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