The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
The Tyranny Of Emeril
Fellow enthusiasts of the finer things in life,
Well, it would seem that the Food Network doesn’t want William Shatner and Christopher Walken to have their own cooking show. It seems that the Food Network is masterminding some great conspiracy to keep them off the air. It would also seem the Food Network has some powerful friends. I didn’t make it 3 blocks before I was surrounded by police officers. I’ll never understand what it is the cops have against us mystery men, but whatever it is, it causes for a lot of incidents between us. Flatfeet and mystery men are about as compatible as Legos and Tinker Toys.
(They’re the Tinker Toys. No one likes Tinker Toys.)
So there I was, marching down the street, singing my anthem to happiness, when no less than a dozen armed policemen surrounded me. I invited them to sing along and join me on my quest, but they all just reached for their billy-clubs instead. Seeing an imminent threat, I reached for my utility belt so that I might fend off my attackers with a non-lethal deterrent, namely, pickle-relish filled prophylactics, but then realized that in the trance of my pants-free euphoria, I had left the house without putting my belt on. I hoped then to disperse this potential menace with a few quick blasts of my atomic vision, but found that in the embarrassment of being caught outside in my shorts, I had trouble performing.
“Who sent you?” I cried, “Was it Emeril that gave the order?”
They remained silent, but I quickly found myself in the center of a large pile-up of angry police officers. Being no stranger to savage beatings, I defended myself as best as possible but found myself unable to escape, being swarmed by some 12 officers. I let loose with a fierce barrage of outright malicious tittie-twisters, but the overwhelming weight of the multitude of large bellies pressed down upon me, in addition to the overwhelming stench of coffee-breath and body odor, made it difficult to breathe and I quickly passed out.
I woke up in a cold jail cell next to a large motorbike enthusiast by the name of Jimbo. My shorts were on backwards, which I couldn’t quite explain, but I was otherwise intact. In the hours that passed, I made conversation with Jimbo, learning along the way the proper method of making moonshine within the comfort of your own jail cell. I also witnessed a most impressive display of tattoos, courtesy of my cellmate, the my favorite of which was a large bunny with a skull in his mouth. Looking at the works of art mapping out Jimbo’s back, I got to thinking, maybe it’s about time I got my own tattoo. I’ve been meaning to for years, and the initial ideas I had for tattoos still hold up. I’m still as impressed with my desired imagery now as I was then, whether it be the Predicon robot Inferno, or the transmetal rodent-dragster Rattrap. Of late, I’ve also been starting to desire an image of Frank Miller’s Dark Knight, I can think of no better piece of art. Move over Mona Lisa!
I tried to nap once while in my cell, but quickly awoke to find Jimbo’s arms around me. I asked my cellmate what he was doing, to which he replied he was merely incredibly happy to find a partner in his quest to see William Shatner and Christopher Walken united together to host a show of culinary delights. He too had been jailed for the same reason he told me. I decided I couldn’t fault him for that and allowed him to continue. But as he continued to hold me closer and tighter, a strange feeling filled me, and I let loose with a large and unintentional burst of atomic vision, which blew out the cell wall.
“Ha ha! Freedom!” I yelled as I leapt out into moonlit streets and ran off, back to my Fortress of Fortitude.
Thus, I am free again. Free to return to my quest of challenging the tyranny of the Food Network. I’d love to post their email address so you could join me in demanding a fine cooking program starring Captain Kirk and the Hessian Horseman, but THEY DON’T HAVE ONE. How convenient! So I suppose you’ll just have to send your demands through the mail. Of course, I’m sure the post office is in on the Food Network’s conspiracy.
Join me my mortal brothers and sisters! Let us never give up, let us dream of a bold, brave new future where T.J. Hooker and McBain serve up burnt enchiladas in glorious primetime! I can see it now, Episode 6: Prudone’s Women, wherein Shatner shows disgust at the prospect of eating caviar and escargot, crying out,
“Dammit! How can we eat this? This food has been cast before us like a trough to swine. We’re men, dammit! We’re men!!!”
Of course, then he’d get locked in a brutal struggle with the Frugal Gourmet, in which Shatner’s shirt and apron would be torn, before Shatner finally disposed of his foe with his patented two-handed wallop.
Or how about Episode 7: The Flavor Country, in which Christopher Walken foresees which leftovers will be eaten by placing his hands in the food. This ironically seals an unfortunate fate for the split pea soup, the chocolate mousse, the sloppy joes, and the lemon meringue pie, which he touches in that order in rapid succession. It’s brilliant!
It’s in our grasp, let’s make it happen.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Well, it would seem that the Food Network doesn’t want William Shatner and Christopher Walken to have their own cooking show. It seems that the Food Network is masterminding some great conspiracy to keep them off the air. It would also seem the Food Network has some powerful friends. I didn’t make it 3 blocks before I was surrounded by police officers. I’ll never understand what it is the cops have against us mystery men, but whatever it is, it causes for a lot of incidents between us. Flatfeet and mystery men are about as compatible as Legos and Tinker Toys.
(They’re the Tinker Toys. No one likes Tinker Toys.)
So there I was, marching down the street, singing my anthem to happiness, when no less than a dozen armed policemen surrounded me. I invited them to sing along and join me on my quest, but they all just reached for their billy-clubs instead. Seeing an imminent threat, I reached for my utility belt so that I might fend off my attackers with a non-lethal deterrent, namely, pickle-relish filled prophylactics, but then realized that in the trance of my pants-free euphoria, I had left the house without putting my belt on. I hoped then to disperse this potential menace with a few quick blasts of my atomic vision, but found that in the embarrassment of being caught outside in my shorts, I had trouble performing.
“Who sent you?” I cried, “Was it Emeril that gave the order?”
They remained silent, but I quickly found myself in the center of a large pile-up of angry police officers. Being no stranger to savage beatings, I defended myself as best as possible but found myself unable to escape, being swarmed by some 12 officers. I let loose with a fierce barrage of outright malicious tittie-twisters, but the overwhelming weight of the multitude of large bellies pressed down upon me, in addition to the overwhelming stench of coffee-breath and body odor, made it difficult to breathe and I quickly passed out.
I woke up in a cold jail cell next to a large motorbike enthusiast by the name of Jimbo. My shorts were on backwards, which I couldn’t quite explain, but I was otherwise intact. In the hours that passed, I made conversation with Jimbo, learning along the way the proper method of making moonshine within the comfort of your own jail cell. I also witnessed a most impressive display of tattoos, courtesy of my cellmate, the my favorite of which was a large bunny with a skull in his mouth. Looking at the works of art mapping out Jimbo’s back, I got to thinking, maybe it’s about time I got my own tattoo. I’ve been meaning to for years, and the initial ideas I had for tattoos still hold up. I’m still as impressed with my desired imagery now as I was then, whether it be the Predicon robot Inferno, or the transmetal rodent-dragster Rattrap. Of late, I’ve also been starting to desire an image of Frank Miller’s Dark Knight, I can think of no better piece of art. Move over Mona Lisa!
I tried to nap once while in my cell, but quickly awoke to find Jimbo’s arms around me. I asked my cellmate what he was doing, to which he replied he was merely incredibly happy to find a partner in his quest to see William Shatner and Christopher Walken united together to host a show of culinary delights. He too had been jailed for the same reason he told me. I decided I couldn’t fault him for that and allowed him to continue. But as he continued to hold me closer and tighter, a strange feeling filled me, and I let loose with a large and unintentional burst of atomic vision, which blew out the cell wall.
“Ha ha! Freedom!” I yelled as I leapt out into moonlit streets and ran off, back to my Fortress of Fortitude.
Thus, I am free again. Free to return to my quest of challenging the tyranny of the Food Network. I’d love to post their email address so you could join me in demanding a fine cooking program starring Captain Kirk and the Hessian Horseman, but THEY DON’T HAVE ONE. How convenient! So I suppose you’ll just have to send your demands through the mail. Of course, I’m sure the post office is in on the Food Network’s conspiracy.
Join me my mortal brothers and sisters! Let us never give up, let us dream of a bold, brave new future where T.J. Hooker and McBain serve up burnt enchiladas in glorious primetime! I can see it now, Episode 6: Prudone’s Women, wherein Shatner shows disgust at the prospect of eating caviar and escargot, crying out,
“Dammit! How can we eat this? This food has been cast before us like a trough to swine. We’re men, dammit! We’re men!!!”
Of course, then he’d get locked in a brutal struggle with the Frugal Gourmet, in which Shatner’s shirt and apron would be torn, before Shatner finally disposed of his foe with his patented two-handed wallop.
Or how about Episode 7: The Flavor Country, in which Christopher Walken foresees which leftovers will be eaten by placing his hands in the food. This ironically seals an unfortunate fate for the split pea soup, the chocolate mousse, the sloppy joes, and the lemon meringue pie, which he touches in that order in rapid succession. It’s brilliant!
It’s in our grasp, let’s make it happen.
The Virgin Prince
