In terms of luring new donkeys to my farm, speculating about the junk in an Olympic swimmer’s trunks has been the most effective carrot yet. Within a single weekend, “Michael Phelps bulge” has become my second most popular search term—right behind “white trash tits” (of which we’re in no short supply ’round these parts). What this tells me is that everyone is as damaged as yours truly; that no matter how hoity our toity may seem, everyone giggles like a schoolgirl in a tickle fight whenever a part of our anatomy protrudes unflatteringly.
Well, almost everyone. My shenanigans seem to offend a lot of folks at LinkedIn, and they’ve told me as much. I’ve made some wonderful contacts there, but a disproportionate number of its members still take umbrage with my meandering bullshit. It’s unthinkable to some that occasionally (read: mostly) juvenile humor would ever perforate a food blog. Are they upset because, being sophisticated professionals, they expect a finer grade of entertainment from one of their own? As someone who has pounded pavement in the business sector for over a decade—and dated just about every link in the corporate food chain—let me just say pshaw! Sophistication and professionalism have so little to do with each other, we might as well be talking vegans and real people.
So why the pretentious friction? Consider this analogy: Social networks are essentially digital proxies for actual events. MySpace was the party site—scantily clad morons, zero privacy and lots of conjecturable shit spun by bullies that already hated your stinking guts (so of course it must’ve been true). Facebook is more akin to a family function, with a tighter-knit circle of better-mannered people that actually matter in your life. And LinkedIn is the mixer where we put our best perma-smile forward. This means perpetuating an annoyingly PC environment, lest one career opportunity deem you insensitive. I know everyone didn’t agree with my opposition to the foie gras ban, but I didn’t take shit for it anywhere else. I mean, if overly-sensitive white people don’t speak for the poor little geese, who will!?
And then there was Jack the Raper. Fucking LinkedIn.
Big F’ing Sandwich
- 2 loaves Italian bread
- 1 lb cooked chicken breast
- 1 bag Caesar salad kit
- garlic powder
- parmesan cheese
This is as simple as it gets in my house. After a long Monday at work, complete with banking drama and a trip to the grocery story, I was in no mood to do much cooking. This is the result:
Slice the 2 loaves in half, lengthwise. Spread bread with mayonnaise, sprinkle with garlic powder and parmesan cheese. Place the bread on a baking sheet and broil until parmesan starts to brown. While the bread broils toss the salad , omitting the croutons. Make a sandwich using the chicken and salad. Slice and serve.
My boyfriend demands you watch the following musical tribute to Michael Phelps. When his daughter was just a little, screaming thing, he would sing this splendiferous song to shut her up. Nothing else worked. How he thought to do this is beyond me—how he thinks to do most things is beyond me. Dude’s a weirdo.
TWTG says, “That’s why I’m so awesome: because I’m awesome.”