Wrangle up your stray dildos and discarded cats, fortify yourself with a hastily smacked together sawdust sandwich, insert that body you carry around into your favorite neon bean bag chair and prepare to be mesmerized by the mannequin crotch-like smoothness of Padma's forehead (which, incidentally, is so cute I could eat it with a spoon). It's All-Star time, bitches!
It's magic making night in the Top Chef boom boom room, and now that Marcel's gangsta lean has been given a swift kick into the big black douchy cauldron of culinary doom, who's next on the line? Do I even care? Before I answer my own question, allow me to take a brief moment of silence to drool over the meaty charms of Spike. . . Oh yeah, now I remember why I care.
For the record, Spike's early dismissal still really burns my biscuits. I mean, was Jamie ever even a real contestant, or were her crimes of dishing just shiny thumb-like objects dangled in front of viewers' faces to arouse kittenish pounce-like reactions of unsheathed fury when the reasonably talented cooks were recklessly tossed aside like her "whatever" wet celery salad?
Ahh, Top Chef. It's not easy, and it is far from pleasant, but still I find myself unable to disentangle myself from this All-Star clusterfuck web you weave.
But for the record... Go Angelo!
And in case you forgot why:
Got that?
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