barnacles!

Life under the sea is far superior to anything up top. My sole and innocent intention on my trip to the Chinese Cherry Buffet was simply to maw down on a pangaea of divine deep sea delights, such as raw baby octopus, mussels, squid, shrimps, scallops, and sushi of all sort.

Beautiful and charming these succulent mollusks and their sucker-bearing tentacles may be, gorging out on brimfuls of briny smorgasbord delicacies was like a self-serve invitation to hell. Afterward, I waddled out of the joint clutching my roiling tummy like the gutless punk I am. Why is it every time I encounter a seafood buffet, my eyes light up like a twerked-out Lite Brite on crack?

As the sinister brood of saltwater crustaceans swimming around my stomach were plotting the rigors of some seriously fucked up poisonous death threnody, I managed to take a deep breath and remind myself that mermaids do this sort of thing all the time.

Sir Eats-A-Lot may have sagely warned my ass to slow down on the fetishization of these lip-smacking deep dive delectables. He might have told me to slow off on the sea cucumbers. The spicy bowls of tiny-fish stew. The wasabi-smothered seaweed mystery wraps. He might have been right. As it is, my mouth tastes like an aquarium, and just in time for Valentine's Day. Sufferin' seahorses!

The Eeyore of the deep sea. I feel your pain, bro. I truly do.

pasta la vista, tre

I have a 12:00 a.m. deadline 'til my article on organic eyelash lube is due and all I care to focus on is setting my alarm for Top Chef. I can't say I was surprised that Tre was the Top Bottom last week, but I was a little hurt by the venomous treatment he received at judge's table. Damn, throw dude a thuggish ruggish bone already. It's not like his chow could have been that much more revolting than any of the other randomly rancid clouds of smoke mushrooming out of any of the remaining twat swabs' saucepans and stewpots.

Two things:

a) I am in seventh heaven this week knowing that Fat Mike and Angry Dale are still here, because if those two mouthy fatasses got iced out over a cooking competition based on Jimmy fuckin' Fallon's barfday lunch, you'll find me hissing in NBC's general direction for yet another goofy TV tie-in that makes about as much sense as Isaac frakin' Mizrahi's flagrant Targhetto presence during the Quickfire Challenge last week. Where in the mother of pearl was Bourdain at?

and 2) I'm chaining down my face furniture with old school librarian peeper protectors until further notice. I'm tired of my slippery enamel eyeglasses crashin' deep down in the commode and puncturing those painstakingly created 2-ply paper barriers I've thoughtfully built to deflect any seat scariness, imaginary or not. I'm frightened by the unknown. So fuckin what?

clean them palates, bitches!

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?

chocolate bunnies r cool

Eatin' snacks & takin' naps, hellz yeah!

Hope your Easter spread was scrumptious.

mac 'n sleaze 'n tater twats

Beloved tenderoni, just look at yourself. Your hypnotic cheddary charms complement parmesan's perverse perfection like a truly potent paramour. I'm incapable of resisting the lava-hot lure of your neon orange ooziness. Throw some sturdy noodles into the mix and behold this tasty threesome. You take my taste buds on a fiendish odyssey that's practically pornographic in its explicitness. Just thought you should know this before I eat you. xoxo

P.S. No, seriously, guys. Does this post make my font look fat?