"Why must I be assaulted with images of bears shitting in the woods on a Saturday morning?" I pondered aloud as I sat on my couch watching the Food Network this morning. "Because the alternative is me taking a dump on your front step for the church goers across the street to see", Mr. Scoop replied.
Clearly, it was going to be one of those days at Chez Scoop. Soon I was going to think back wistfully on the memory of bear shit innuendo as commercial vehicle for toilet paper sales. It was so much less disturbing than what was about to befall me.
What you're looking at on the left side of the screen is the face of evil.
Her name is Sandra Lee.
She must be stopped.
The biggest mistake I made (other than not changing the channel) was not getting drunk while I watched this. I hate her so much that two years ago I created a drinking game for the sole purpose of killing the pain that watching her mutilate helpless ingredients by mixing them with "70% storebought" processed crap creates in my poor, defenseless brain. She gives me stabby thoughts.
Yes, Sandra Lee is back with a new look to dress up her 70/30 philosophy towards "cooking" ("70% store-bought/ready-made products accompanied by 30% fresh and creative touches" - I suppose then that buying a package of Pillsbury brownie mix and adding as many grams of ground hash as I can get my hands on before I baked it would make the brownies "semi-homemade"). She changed her opening montage of frightening pictures. She no longer tries to cartwheel (in obvious ecstasy over the way Polysorbate 80 has bonded with her, the host organism). She does inexplicable things, like touch fresh produce as though she knows what it is. Mr. Scoop thinks she may know what fresh produce is because "once in a while she may need a break from the vibrator".
It appears as though I'm going to have to make some amendments to the drinking game. "Drink if she's been left alone with a child in her kitchen. Chug if she kisses him." "To hell with that", shouted Mr. Scoop. "Call the damn police!"
The premise of today's show was that her sister, apparently uncaring that Sandra is an alcoholic wreck who Botoxes her hands to keep them from shaking, was going to leave the kids with her so that she could go off for some alone time on her anniversary. I guess she decided that her anniversary gift to her husband would be to start over as a childless couple. Sandra prattled on about her nephew "Scottie" as they flashed a picture of him on the screen (that may well have been from a milk carton - we will never actually see this child live in the entire episode), "Aunt Sandy is going to make Scottie and his friends -" "Sick!", I interjected. "Ginger cookies with peach ice cream," she continued.
She showed off a blob of melty butter in a dish. "I bet she softened that by putting it between her fake tits", Mr. Scoop snarled. "Oh, honey", I said. "There's no warmth there."
"Aunt Sandy" then proceeded to doctor up some sugar cookie mix with an inexplicable mixture of ground, jarred and crystalized ginger - apparently on the principle that if a little is good then entirely too much is better. I think she just liked the idea that if she stared at the crystalized ginger with her eyes out of focus, it could be crack. She proudly showed her overspiced creation to the camera and declared: "I really like this cookie dough mix because you can use it for so many things!" "Yeah, I've got bathroom that needs grout. Why don't you send some of that on over", I told her. My money is on her letting that dough dry out so she can grind if fine and use it to cut the coke that she clearly must be dealing in order to finance this trainwreck.
"I just want her to be honest and some day do an Emergency Room tablescape", said Mr. Scoop imploringly. By imploringly, I mean he'd pulled out his cell phone and was making calls to "people who can get shit done". Unfortunately, the operator told him there was no published listing in the general directory for "Filthy Manny the Eliminator". Words were exchanged. I suspect he'll be looking for another cell carrier again soon.
"Oh God", he lamented. "Her cookie dough is making me go to that happy place from 60's science fiction where we could get food in pill form." "If Sandra Lee had to rely on food pills to create recipes, she'd find a way to sneak in about 10 Vicodin", I replied. "Baby", he said. "I love you but, if this keeps up, I may have to kill you". "Hey. You bought me the Tivo", I said in return. "You just want to drive me to Irish up my Diet Coke. Where's the whiskey?" he asked, leaving the room for the kitchen.
It was going to be a long morning.
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