From the Green Room: Burger King, Ribs, and America

Susan Raatz, a USDA research nutritionist, said that obesity is the number one health problem in America. According to her, 66 percent the American population is overweight or obese. Raatz has obviously not recently visited Disneyworld, where a quick peek at the line for Space Mountain would suggest the number of non-fatties is in the single digits.

remember this guy?No one should be surprised by the statistic, given that in the same year KFC brought us the Holy Grail of Drive Thru Fare, The Double Down (two pieces of fried chicken fillets serve as a ‘bun’ to encase slices of Monterey pepper jack cheeses, bacon, and a special sauce…just in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past three months), Burger King has begun selling ribs.

Yes, you heard right. The creepy, plastic-headed monarch stuck his bejeweled tootsies in the barbecue pool. But just weeks after introducing their new menu item, Burger King abruptly stopped selling it, and not because they suddenly became health conscious. No, they ceased selling slabs of porcine goodness because…they ran out.

America ate them all. More than ten million of those little, smoked, piggie bones. According to one America REALLY enjoyed thisfranchisee, they were “ahead of the projections from the get-go.”  As Wendy’s “Baconator” suggests, this isn’t the only pork-centric item that has been offered at a fast food restaurant, just the first time ribs were available. Unless you count the McDonalds McRib, which more closely resembled a pressboard roofing shingle submerged in what was allegedly barbecue sauce and stuck on a bun with pickles and a few strips of raw onion than it did actual ribs. Apparently, Mickey D’s believed that to promote the sale of their rib-like product, it had to be fashioned in a manner so as to be injested while driving. It’s a concept that, even to the most casual barbecue enthusiast, is sheer blasphemy. You didn’t have to be a gourmand to know that the McRib was more than just a pale imitation of the real thing.  It could hardly even be considered food.

To their credit, Burger King embraced the concept of the bone.  They knew that a babyback is only a what's up with this guy?babyback if you can see what once connected it to a spine. Rib eating is a celebration of the consumption of a fellow vertebrate, and an affirmation of our superior position on the food chain. There is no greater endorphin rush than the ceremonial ingestion of a rib. Whether you prefer dry rub or slathered with sauce (ketchup based in Tennessee or mustard based in South Carolina), each delectable bite is a jubilant exclamation of, “Ha ha Porky, you cloven hooved bastard! Who’s your daddy now?  Buddabee buddabee buddabee, that’s ALL folks!”

In a masterstroke of genius, Burger King embraced that a rib is not an item meant to be eaten with one hand. Even if they were surprised that the larger, more expensive six and eight-piece packages proved to be the most popular, causing them to run out way before they had anticipated, they knew you were willing to pull over to the side of the road to enjoy them. And promptly made a fortune off that idea in a financial climate that has other fast-food outlets offering dollar menus and bargain meal deals.

They had faith in fat people’s lack of self-control. 

There is hope for America after all.

From the Green Room: Paula Deen's BP Shrimp & Oyster Casserole

Hey y’all!

Everybody’s talking about this horrible oil spill and what it’s gonna do to the Gulf Coast seafood industry, but I’ve got the answer for you: my Creole Crude Shrimp and Oyster Casserole. Cause my Grandaddy used to always say: “When life gives you lemons… make yourself some shellfish.”

• Take two pounds of Jumbo Gulf Shrimps, heads and tails on, ‘cause that’s where all the flavor is.  EVERYTHING tastes better with a shrimp head in it.  It’s the first ingredient in my Chocolate Mousse recipe.  
• Take them shrimp and marinate ‘em overnight in a five gallon bucket of high test gasoline.  You may be temped to use regular, but you want to get as much octane on them babies as you can, for a reason that will be revealed to you in just a minute.  
• Then take five dozen Apalachicola oysters, shuck them puppies, and sauté them in a pan with four pounds of butter and some two stroke engine oil—make sure it’s the petroleum, not the synthetic kind, because this is an all natural dish.
• important ingredientStick your oyster shells in the food processor, and run them through until the blades bend and eventually shear off.  You should have about two cups of what will look like a coarse cracker meal, except it’s oyster shells.
• Take your sautéed oysters, dredge them in those crushed shells, and line them up on the bottom of a 9-inch glass pie plate that you’ve already spray treated with some WD-40.
• Then, in a nonstick pot, melt four jars of chunky peanut butter, half a cup of bittersweet chocolate chips, a dozen macerated chicken bones and some STP fuel injector cleaner.
• Bring it up to a slow boil, pour it over your oysters, throw your unleaded fuel-marinated shrimp on top.
• Now, take a bic lighter, and flambé that sucker!  Stand back, or you’ll singe off your eyebrows, and your face will wind up looking like a catfish butt. I’m gonna bring this dish to the CEOS of BP and force them sumbitches to eat every bite.

Bon Appetit, ya bastards!

From the Green Room: Behind the Music Videos

Lady WTFLady Gaga’s newest nine minute video, “Alejandro,” features her in a polyvinyl chloride nun’s habit swallowing rosary beads. Katy Perry’s latest, “California Gurls,” has her shooting frosting from her breasts.

The Buggles were right. Video DID kill the radio star.

As Miley Cyrus’s pole-dancing on the ice cream cart would suggest, controversy is now a pre-requisite when attempting to promote records.Video imagery has been a sales technique ever since the advent of MTV in the 1980s. It was the foundation of Madonna’s career, which is also obviously the paradigm Lady Gaga is following as she makes her way through her particular fifteen minutes. However, as pop culture progressed and “evolved,” the bar has been raised…or lowered precipitously, depending on your perspective.

Prodigy’s “Smack my Bitch Up” video, as one would expect, is rife with disturbingly pervasive violence and the assault of women. M.I.A. was banned from You Tube for “Born Free,” a short in which genocide against redheads was depicted, a philosophy that one can’t help but embrace, given how annoying Carrot Top is. And who could ever forget the pedophile manifesto foist upon us by Britney Spears with her “Hit Me Baby One More Time” video, three minutes and fifteen seconds of creepy jailbait hijinx that, upon merely one viewing, makes even the most morally upstanding man want to surrender himself to Chris Hansen. 

In the tradition of Madonna, Marilyn Manson, and Puff Daddy, Lady Gaga uses Christian imagery in what many would consider to be in profane and blasphemous ways. She has learned at the feet of the masters: nothing gets you more press than a condemnation from the Catholic Church.  It’s not clear what Lady GaGa’s non-secular garb has to do with the subject of the video, which appears to be sadomasochistic, homosexual bondage, but I guess it must be an artistic choice.
 
I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like. 

I’d much prefer Katy Perry shot-gunning frosting from her bosom if she were attempting to ice a cake.

From the Green Room: Kate Plus 8, Plus a lot of Therapy

America breathed a collective sigh of relief with news that Kate Gosselin is back on TLC.  After the tease of seeing her on Dancing with the Stars, 185 pounds lighter after shedding her creepy husband Jon, she has finally returned to the show that made her a household name. Renamed “Kate Plus Eight,” the first episode of the new season features the world’s perkiest single mom bringing her behemoth brood to Discovery Cove in Orlando.  But, as you secretly hoped, what starts out as a fun family vacation quite rapidly degenerates into a outburst of bitterness, jealousy, and, thank God, angry violence.

The sextuplets are seen swimming with dolphins, one of the main attractions at Discovery Cove, but for some unexplained reason, the older children, twins Maddy and Cara, are not part of the fun.  They proceed to go into full on pout mode, as the little ones “always get to do all the fun stuff!”

As every parent of young children knows, when in doubt, never underestimate the value of buying love. Kate attempts to right this wrong by getting a piñata exclusively for the amusement of the older siblings. 

The candy-filled papier mache vessel of sweets is in the shape of a smiling sun, not the donkey that is the traditional form of the Mexican party favor.  But “El Sol” actually works better, because once the two little hellions get those sticks in their hands, viewers quickly realize that the piñata is a substitute for their mother’s head. The sun might as well have a hideous blonde hairdo on it, because you know that with every violent whack against the hanging ornament, the girls are envisioning Kate’s face. 

They never speak the words, but you can almost see the thought balloons over their heads saying “I hate you Mommy! You’re the reason Daddy doesn’t love us anymore! I wish you’d never been artificially inseminated!” The only thing sweeter than this spontaneous paroxysm of unrestrained detestation is that the twins receive a buttload of candy for their vitriolic venting. Nothing better to stick down the gullet of a hopped up young’un than handfuls of white sugar. Bedtime that night must’ve been positively dreamy.

More disturbing than this scenario was the reunion of the eight little spawns of Satan with their camera crew, who, if the kids’ reactions were any indication, must be the closest thing they have to a non-dysfunctional family. Instead of appearing positively adorable as was obviously intended, their delighted squeals come off as rather sad.

When your child prefers the company of a tattooed, middle-aged teamster to you, it’s a pretty safe bet that you’re not exactly Mother of the Year.

From the Green Room: Merci, Marie Claire

Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.  That’s either a quote from Confucius or from a fortune cookie, which, incidentally, was the original delivery system for wisdom way before the advent of Snapple Marie Claire modelCaps.  

The French have, once again, shown their progressive thinking by embracing a form of beauty that heretofore has gone unrecognized.  In the French edition of the fashion magazine Marie Claire, there is a photo editorial featuring topless women; it is unique not in that they are bare-chested, but because the models are all of the plus-size variety.  

That’s right.  Fat girls are finally getting their due.

Fetish magazines like BBW and Tons O’ Fun notwithstanding, overweight gals have not traditionally been the subject of such pictorials. I suppose that the market for nude Lulu Roman types would be considered niche at best.  But if beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, then heavyset heroines should be Also a Marie Claire modelmore prolific in publications, since 99 percent of the guys reading nudie magazines are hideously, morbidly obese shmoes themselves.

This is huge news from an industry where any girl above a size 2 is considered chunky.  Let’s face it: beefy roller derby queens don’t suffer from bulimia. So to have ladies who are somewhat against type on the pages of Vanity Fair and Cosmopolitan is not only a refreshing change of pace, it’s far more realistic.

Think about it. When was the last time you were at the Walmart and saw a babe like Scarlett Johansseon in the canned meat aisle?  How often has the young woman in the visor behind the drive-thru window at Hardees resembled Penelope Cruz? And few women working at the Department of Motor Vehicles looks like Naomi Campbell. Does not work at DMV

Though these plus-size women are not the sort you’d find distributing parking tickets in New York City, the French are celebrating that women are like Grand Prix racing tracks: the more curves they have, the more exciting they are. Thumbing through the June issue of the French Marie Claire (to which I subscribe for the hard-hitting journalism), you will find that these women have tremendous sex appeal. These Meaty Mamas are H.O.T.

About the only thing you can say about this turn of events is that it promotes a hideous double standard.  I’m a triple D cup myself. You don’t see French Marie Claire calling me for layout.  

Quite frankly, I’m hurt.  But it’s nothing a sheet cake can’t cure.