Yes, Food Network darling Paula Deen has become a staple aound the household in recent weeks, but I would drive a stake in her heart, separate her head from her body by a body of flowing water, sew her mouth stuffed and shut with garlic cloves, bury her body and head face down so they would merely dig deeper if they somehow tried to rise from the grave, sprinkle each section’s grave with crumbled sacred host and salt, and periodically come by and hose down each site with holy water.
Did I miss anything?
Anyway, the reason for all that pent-up repulsion: she puts mayonnaise on damn near everything that she prepares on her various shows. I come in from lunch, Paula’s making some absolutely wonderful dish, and then she whips out the Hellmans.
My stomach instantly enters a negative-G Lomcevak.
It was bad enough in my childhood having to watch my father regularly eat peanut butter-banana-and-mayonnaise sandwiches. It was even worse once kids entering the depths of sexual awareness started making the obvious mayonnaise jokes.
My opinion on the intellect of the American workforce pops the air brakes and noses over in a vertical dive when I order a hamburger with no mayonnaise and soon wonder if I choked or went asthmatic when I tried to speak the word ‘no.’
But to come home and have this demon of cuisine desecrate my television with a couple of big dollops of beaten egg and vegetable oil pole vaults over the line of human decency. I might as well invite her to my home to defecate on the carpet.
The word is that Ben and Jerry’s is about to unveil a new ice cream named after Paula Deen. My bet is that it’ll probably be nothing more than frozen mayonnaise.
Maybe they’ll name it ‘Paula Deen’s Sperm Sample.’