Archive for the ‘Delicious’ Category

Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner’s Monster Mouth Corner: Eat a Donut Bacon Cheeseburger
March 29, 2010

Look, I’ve got nothing against all-natural produce, but we can’t always just eat an organic pear.  Sometimes we need something more.  Sometimes we need savory as well as sweet.  Sometimes we need throw caution to the wind and say, “Fuck it all: I’ll eat Cheerios and Lipitor the rest of this week if I must, but tonight I want to live!”  Sometimes, dear readers, we need to eat a donut bacon cheeseburger, which is precisely what I did this weekend.  Behold the epitome of gluttony and the pinnacle of modern culinary innovation, made by my own two hands:

donut bacon cheeseburger gloriousness

Now, having actually had the high-calorie, fatty food food equivalent of a gang bang, I can tell you the following things about the donut bacon cheeseburger with great certainty:

  1. Despite allegations otherwise, the donut bacon cheeseburger is not a sign of the apocalypse.  It is glorious.
  2. In fact, the donut bacon cheeseburger is so mind-blowingly scrumptious that I’d reckon this is the Harbinger of Deliciousness, a veritable Jesus Burger that has come from the heavens above to rid the world of size-zero pants and preach the gospel of elastic waistbands.
  3. My vision of Heaven is most likely the 9th circle of Hell for vegetarians.  In certain fundamentalist vegan Christian circles, I am now the front runner for the Antichrist.  I guess even the irresistible temptations of a donut bacon cheeseburger can’t win ’em all.

The rest of my experience is a bit more of a blur, so at this point we have to pause so you can decide if you want to take the donut bacon cheeseburger pill or the boring pill.  How far down this culinary rabbit hole of batshit insanity and morbid obesity do you want to go?  Oh, who am I kidding?  Red pill it is!

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Happy Birthday, Paula Deen!
January 19, 2010

It’s no secret over here at Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner that I love me some Paula Deen like Paula Deen loves herself some butter.  And while my holiday plans to visit my deep-fried mecca (The Lady and Sons) were ultimately foiled (curses to you, unnecessarily convoluted and ambiguous process by which one ensures a table at the Lady and Sons!), she remains the Julia to my Julie.  Sure, I may not be blogging about my experience cooking Paula Deen’s recipe oeuvre (I lack the requisite ambition/willingness to have a coronary before I’m 30), but I will gladly blog about this:

Sure, it may not be playing an instrumental role in bringing French cuisine into the American household, but Paula Deen once had really hot guys in tight shirts deliver her a giant bust made ENTIRELY OUT OF BUTTER.  AND THEN SHE KISSED IT.  Et tu, Mrs. Child?

Also, only Paula Deen is capable of the following culinary crazy train:

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I Hear Britain’s Faggots Are Totally Delicious
August 27, 2009

Yesterday, while the rest of the nation mourned the passing of a Senator Ted Kennedy, I was in the fits of a craving even more debilitating than cookies.  This isn’t to say that I wasn’t saddened by the news or incapable of appreciating his impressive political legacy, but I have a tendency to live as though I’m the human personification of Carnie Wilson’s I’m Still Hungry, so it only makes sense that I found myself having tunnel vision the second that I began thinking about Swedish meatballs:

i want swedish meatballsAnyways, as my mind became increasingly one-tracked with the thought of those succulent morsels slathered a creamy gravy, I realized that I had absolutely no knowledge as to what made Swedish meatballs so Swedish.  I naturally turned to Wikipedia for the answers, which explains that Swedish meatballs are a mixture of ground beef and pork, along with milk-soaked breadcrumbs and chopped onions.  That’s all quite interesting, but not nearly as interesting as this:

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Drop Dead Delightful
August 4, 2009

As has been alleged and avowed, I am a geek, and I am pretty damn gay.  Often, these two facets of my personality come together in celebration of life’s grandest things.  Whether it be my comic book inspired love of Daniel Cudmore, or my adoration of Jane Austen and Zombies, gay geekery has brought many wonderful things into my life.  And today, I share my latest discovery.

98898_rising-star-brooke-elliot-in-drop-dead-diva

You see, I am currently indulging in that most glorious of pursuits:  the staycation.  With the bar exam  now nothing more than an unpleasant memory, and month before I enter the gentlemanly practice of law for the rest of eternity, I have nothing to do but sprawl out on the couch and enjoy about a month’s worth of DVR’ed TV ranging from re-runs of the The Big Bang Theory to HGTV’s Design Star.   Included on the list is the latest effort from Lifetime, whose fine programming has entertained housewives and homos for years.

The moment I saw previews for this small-screen gem, I knew I would love it.  I have to admit, I have a love of trashy legal shows.  It is a closely guarded secret, but the path to my legal career began when  fourteen year-old baby gay Shmathan first viewed Ally McBeal.  It made corporate law seem fun and full of wacky hijinx.  Those false expectations aside, I owe my law degree to Calista Flockhart’s short skirted escapades.   So obviously, I am always eager to watch whatever legal comedy television has to offer, and Drop Dead Diva delivered in spades.

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The Bitterness is Strong in This One
July 26, 2009

A note by Shmathan…

Despite the general bitchiness with which I express myself on this blog, I am actually a pretty nice person.  I hold doors open and give up my seat on the subway to old ladies.  I’m good people.  Consequently, I don’t normally find the suffering of another human being enjoyable.  But there are exceptions.  For example, when a person has committed High Crimes and Misdemeanors against all of mankind, I find a certain sense of joy in the miserable existence he reaps as a consequence.  But who is this person, you may ask?  This person against whom I direct such righteous fury?  The answer, dear readers, is Jake Lloyd.

When cinema critics look back on the abomination that was The Phantom Menance, they have no shortage of targets.  The fact that Lucas went batshit crazy for CGI effects at the expense of actual dialog.  The fact that the mystical nature of the Force which had intrigued science fiction afficionados for decades was reduced to something as lame as midichlorians.  That every CGI alien from the Nemoidians to Watto was some sort of racial stereotype.  And of course, in that vein, the introduction of the worst most offensive character in the history of Science Fiction:  Jar Jar Binks.  And then, there is Jake Lloyd.

Jake Lloyd, or as I like to call him “Mannequin Skywalker” for the unnatural, plastic manner in which he “acted.”  Now, I know some people would jump to his defense, saying he was only ten years old.  No dice.  Talent is not defined by age.  Anna Paquin won an academy award at 12.  Dakota Fanning had more presence at eight years old than most actresses muster in their prime.  The simple truth is, Lloyd’s pathetic articulations and awkward manner meant he couldn’t even play a kid naturally.  You have to really suck to be a ten year old boy who fails at playing a ten year old boy believably.  He deserved every savage review he received at the time.  And now, ten years later, one might wonder how he’s doing.  Well, wonder no more, and marvel at his recent interview at Australia ComicCon.

To quote the great Jane Lynch:  “Your resentment is delicious.” (more…)

Nothing Gets Done When You’re Craving Cookies
July 23, 2009

Faithful readers and fresh-off-the-blog-boaters, I must be honest: I’ve got a problem.  No, it’s not a love for the Sauce, nor is it for anything that could snorted (thank goodness) or shot into my veins (absolutely not).  No no, I’ve got a different sort of problem, and that problem’s name is Cookies.

cookie monster c'est moi

Really, if you put any form, no matter the shape, consistency, texture, or list of ingredients in front of me, I will snatch that shit away from you quicker than you can blink.  The only answer I know to the question “Would you like a cookie?” is “I’ll take three.”  The only  response I have to “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re out” is “BAKE MORE, WHORES!!!”  

When I’m not eating cookies, I’m thinking about eating cookies.  Seriously, I can’t even blog sometimes because all I’d would write would be this:

COOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIE COOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIE COOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIE COOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIECOOKIE.

Even I don’t even find that compelling, and I’m the one thinking about pecan sandies at this very moment.  

And even when I am eating cookies, I’m thinking about eating other types of cookies, which I guess is sorta like imagining having sex with someone other than the person you’re having sex with, except I’m thinking about Double Stuf Oreos instead of Ryan Gosling.  It’s a problem, y’all.  

Now I know you probably think I’m totally making this up and that Cookie Addiction, like modern art and women’s rights, is just some bogus joke perpetrated by the bourgeois liberal elite.  Trust me, y’all, it’s a real problem, and it will destroy your family.  Just look at how it can ravage the mind:

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Gabe and Max Make Me Want a Bloomin’ Onion
June 16, 2009

Maybe I’m carrying twins, or maybe it’s just a tapeworm, but I’ve been craving me some greasy-ass food today like the life of my unborn fake babies depended on it.    I’ve got an urge to gulp down country gravy like it’s a glass of water and add six slices of bacon to anything that’s remotely edible.  Seriously, I’d eat garbage, literal garbage, if it was deep fried.  It’s a problem.

Needless to say, the new Gabe and Max’s Guide to Man Style video ain’t helping my situation:

I should be prattling on about how dreamy Gabe is.  It may be old hat, but it’s always fashionable.  Instead of talking about that deliciousness, though, I’m fixated on that damn Bloomin’ Onion.  Really, look at this battered-and-deep-fried hotness:

bloomin onion

Sweet mercy, it’s delectable nature is taunting me, and at gimungo resolution, I’m a freakin’ Pavlovian hot mess.  I get that the Bloomin’ Onion is shot in such a way that it’s supposed to be comically grotesque, but it’s not working.  At all.  I just keep thinking about the ghastly calorie and sodium levels and the inevitable stomachache that eating an entire Bloomin’ Onion would cause, and then I just wish it was in front of me.  Right now.  Sure, Outback claims the Bloomin’ Onion serves six, but my fake unborn babies will totally help pick up the slack.

Besides, Bloomin’ Onions don’t involve women, so there’s always room for an extra five servings.

As always, air kisses to Videogum.

It’s Official: You Can Now Chew My Blog
June 12, 2009

Sometimes brevity is the soul of wit, and this is one of those times.  Seriously, I just thought you should know that you can take the deliciousness that is my blog anywhere you go:

bigger bitch gum

When you think about it, the fact that it tastes like fruit is all too fitting.

Not Even a Pound of Cheese Will Convince Me to See X-Men Origins: Wolverine
April 29, 2009

Have you heard of Papa John’s Pizza’s X-Men Origins: Wolverine promotional tie-in pizza, the XL X-treme Cheese Pizza?  It’s an extra-large pizza that purports to have nearly a pound of cheese on it.  It’s a cheesy monstrosity of instant obesisity.  It’s also completely delicious.  Just take a look at it and try not to slobber in Pavlovian glee:

pj-xlxtreme1

There’s just one problem with this pizza though, and that’s that it serves as a promotional tool for X-Men Origins: Wolverine.  I mean, movie trailers are not form of promotion; and, judging by the trailer, this movie doesn’t deserve a pizza of such uninhibited, greasy deliciousness:

I’ll admit that a part of me is inherently disinterested because I’m still incredibly bitter for what Fox and Marvel did to the X-Men franchise to Brett Ratner and let him make the embarrassment that is X-Men: The Last Stand.  Seriously, we aren’t going to talk about it because I don’t want to head home being ragey.  It’ll give me a terrible eye twitch while riding the subway home, and that’s no good for anyone.  

Mostly, though, this movie just looks bad.  The special effects are incredibly cheap looking, and the whole movie just seems to aesthetically remind me of a moderately budgeted made-for-TV movie.  Add in the fact that, beyond Hugh Jackman’s good looks, Wolverine does nothing for me as a character, and you’ve just put this movie on the Do Not Want List, Fox.  Guess you shouldn’t have gotten rid of Phoenix Effect, assholes.

The one redeeming factor to this movie is that all this promotional material coming from Papa John’s has confirmed something I’ve long suspected:

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I Want to Go to There
March 19, 2009

When I was young, I remember thinking that Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs was some sort of vision of Eden, and the townspeople’s exodus at the end made no sense to me.  I guess downpours of giant pancakes and such is somewhat apocalyptic, and by apocalyptic, I mean amazing.  Just build your fallout shelters and go scavenging between storms, you wimps.  That’s what I’d do, at least.  Duh.

And, much to my extremely pleasant surprise, Hollywood appears to competently adapting this holiest of holy texts:

That movie is going to make me insanely hungry when I watch it, so that’s bad; but I’m totally loving the look of this movie (particularly those trippy colors in the rain clouds) and the fact that it’ll be 3-D, so that’s good.  While it might perhaps be odd and/or creepy for a man in his mid-twenties to see Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs by himself (because he can’t convince anyone to see it with him), I really don’t care.  This movie looks awesome.

If they include a scratch and sniff card with it, this movie be the best.  Or pancakes.  That trailer’s really got me craving pancakes like I’m pregnant with triplets.

Thanks to Pajiba for posting the existence of this wonder.

What is “The Joan Crawford”?
March 17, 2009

Perhaps you read the previous post and asked yourself, “‘Pot roast and Joan Crawfords’?  Whatever is a Joan Crawford?”

This is the Joan Crawford:

joan-drink

Trust me, it’s delicious.

Sweet Mercy, Paula Deen is Reading My Mind
February 4, 2009

So I recognize that two posts into this whole blog thing and I’ve yet to talk about a single movie, which, for a movie review blog, likely constitutes as a FAIL.  Well, shut your face, ‘cos at least I’m posting a video at this point.  Baby steps, y’all.  Baby steps.

Holy Moses, it’s as though Paula Deen had crawled into my head, searched for my deepest, darkest desire, and then made it come true.  Some of my coworkers seemed to think that this is disgusting.  WRONG!  Is the brilliance of Michelango’s  Sistine Chapel disgusting?  No.  Is the triumph of artistry that is Showgirls disgusting?  No!  Is Paula Deen’s utopic taste-bud sensation disgusting?  NO!  Mix in some Worcestershire into those burgers and throw on a slice of Boar’s Head cheese and prepare to meet God.

I seriously think I will be trekking to Penn Station after work just to get my hands on some Krispy Kremes so I can make this symphony of worldly delights.  My wildest dreams have come true.

Thanks, Best Week Ever!

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