Anybody got $780k they could lend me?

Remember the golden days of eBay, when people used to sell off their old baseball cards, video games, books or even their old kitchen appliances? I remember when I was in junior high school, and before I started making money, I was so excited to sell my old Game Boy games and make like $15. That was a lot of money to me at the time.

Although, it’s not like I’m exactly rolling in money now. Yesterday I found $5 in the back pocket of my jeans and I practically did a pirouette. You’re probably wondering what it would look like for a grown man to do a pirouette. Well, just think of Natalie Portman in Black Swan, and then picture the complete opposite.

Anyway, so eBay has lost a little bit of its luster over the years. And apparently, online auctioning has evolved into something no Internet analyst probably ever could have predicted. What went from auctioning old household items, has now gone to auctioning, well, something else.

Like… your virginity. 

I’ll let that sink in for a minute. *Goes off and listens to a track off the new Taylor Swift album.*

Okay, I’m back. And for some odd reason, I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to be mad at one of my old ex’s. I don’t know where that came from.

So as you can see from that link that you didn’t click on, a Brazilian women named Catarina Migliorini took to the site virginswanted.com.au and offered her virginity up for sale.

Now that’s just despicable, that’s just wrong, that’s just… *sees how much money she received*

…the most brilliant thing I have ever seen. This girl is not a “skank,” she’s a freaking entrepreneur. Do you have any idea how much $780k could buy you? Well, I guess the answer to that question is: $780k worth of things, but you get the point.

Although this chick is claiming that she is going to donate 90% to charity, and will build homes in Brazil for the needy. Great, I guess? But, if your overall goal was to help the poor, couldn’t you, like, fundraise instead? You know, like start a charitable organization, rather than offering your body over the Internet? And how would you feel as a starving, poor Brazilian child knowing that your brand new home was funded by some crazed horndog over the Internet who was just trying to get laid?

They probably don’t care at all, actually.

First of all, if I’m a hooker — which I’m not, yet — I’m looking at this article and thinking, what the “f-word?” They’ve been prostituting their bodies for god knows how long, and including pimp fees, they probably haven’t even made $780k in their lifetime.

Meanwhile, this girl made that much money in one try, and she didn’t even require a pimp. The Internet was her pimp.

Also, how the heck can it be proven that this Brazilian 20-year-old is indeed a virgin? If you’re a hot Brazilian girl and you’re still a virgin by age 20, it’s not because of a lack of suitors — it’s because you’re saving yourself for the right dude. And apparently, Ms. Migliorini believed that her “one and only” can be found for the right price over the Internet. It just does not compute.

In all honesty though, this was pretty much the perfect storm of awesomeness for any guy. Only three words needed to register for her auction page: Brazilian. 20. Virgin.

Pictures are not even necessary. Everyone knows how much guys drool over the Brazilian volleyball players in the Olympics and their skimpy bikinis, so we just envision that’s what all Brazilian girls look like. But since you probably won’t keep reading unless I show you a picture, and since you obviously still haven’t clicked on the link I posted before — here you go.

Yeah, $780k sounds about right.

Actually, on second thought, her face seems a little distant in that picture and it makes me feel like she is hiding something, therefore — 2/10, would NOT bang.

And lost in all the hubbub is the fact that there is an actual website devoted towards auctioning off people’s virginity. I wonder if they considered calling it eMate.com? That was really the best I could come up with. That’s all I got.

Damn, just 30 seconds later I thought of eLay.com. Should have went with that.

Well I’d stay around and chat about this some more, but I have some auctioning to do.

Not that kind of auctioning. I need to sell off my old, um, my old roller skates…

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I will never know what it’s like to have a beach body

Back in primitive days, before cars, before houses, and well before electricity — I’m talking about hunting and gathering days — you had no choice but to have a six-pack. And the reason is because, if you didn’t have a six-pack, you’d probably die.

You had to live every moment of your life trying to survive. You had to be able to lift heavy objects, to be able to run from enemies and to be able to hunt at will. So, in those days, it was either have a six-pack or have a six-foot burial.

But now we have cars. And houses that don’t consist of branches and leaves. And electricity. You don’t have to fend for your life on a daily basis. Therefore, standards for physical appearance have dropped exponentially.

You can live a long time as a fat man or woman. Maybe you won’t live to be 100, but there’s no reason why you can’t live to be about 70 before your heart finally gives out on your fat self.

What bothers me most about our country though, isn’t necessarily all the fat people stomping around — but the standards that our country has. It’s gotten to the point where you are considered “skinny” just if you aren’t fat.

The acceptable weight, or BMI, for a male of my height — 5-feet 9-inches — is 170 pounds. Excuse me? If I weigh 170 pounds, I’m fat. Right now, I weight about 160, and I know that I have a sizable gut. So how is 170 acceptable?

People need to realize that not being fat is not an accomplishment. Just because you are able to go up a flight of stairs without breathing heavily does not mean that you are in shape.

I am somebody who works out about 6/7 days of the week in some form. However, I still don’t have the healthiest of diets, and thus, my body leaves a lot to be desired. I certainly am not fat, and I even wear medium-sized t-shirts, but I’m still not proud of my body. I also don’t eagerly await moments when I can take my shirt off.

I can’t even begin to fathom what it must feel like to have a desirable body.

Actually, scratch that, because if I had a desirable body, I would be the biggest asshole known to mankind. We all know that girls love guys with nice bodies — and I’m already full of myself as it is — so if I actually had rock-hard abs and bulging biceps, I would be the most irritating, obnoxious, narcissistic individual there is.

But anyway, it’s just funny to me that we consider people in “great” shape who still have a decent-sized gut. If my doctor tells me I’m in great shape even though my belly still protrudes over my waist, then what the heck does he say to somebody who has a six-pack? Does he just instantly start sucking his dick?

I can also tell you right now that I will probably never have a body that girls will swoon over when they see me at the beach. It’s just too much time and effort to not only achieve, but to maintain. I can already run four miles on any given day with relative ease. That number does not need to grow any further.

But if you do have a great body, then god bless you. Clearly you, as opposed to me, do think it’s important to take the best possible care of yourself, and to eat healthy 24/7, and to be in pristine, vintage shape. If that’s your kick, then that’s one awesome kick.

My kick is to lie on my bed and watch TV shows for hours on end, while exerting no energy and burning zero calories.

You win.

It’s 2012. We can swear on TV if we want to.

I don’t watch Good Morning, America. I couldn’t tell you what channel it’s on, what time it’s on, or who hosts it. And the answer to that is because I do not care.

When I wake up in the morning, I want to do one of two things:

1) Go back to sleep.

2) Kill somebody.

I am not a morning person. It takes all of my inner strength to make it out of my bed and into the shower without murdering somebody in the morning. So the absolute last thing I want to do after waking up is put on Good Morning, America. And I seriously mean that. If I took the time to compile a list of all the things I want to do in the morning, and I included every possible act a human being can undertake, then “watching Good Morning, America” would be at the very bottom of that list.

But anyway, the purpose of these daytime talk shows is to let celebrities plug their projects. Good Morning, America recently had Tom Hanks on as a guest. While he was spewing his b.s. with whoever the host it, he let the “f-bomb” slip.

The reaction of Hanks and the ugly host is absolutely hysterical to me. They’re acting as if he just made the most heinous and inconceivable statement known to mankind. They acted as if he said something like, “All African-Americans should be lined up and shot.” Or as if he said something like, “I think Japan needs to get Hiroshima’d again.”

But he did not say that. He accidentally let the “f-word” slip. And that is all.

I honestly don’t know where to begin. I guess I can start by saying that I am so desensitized to swearing and foul language that it didn’t even occur to me that Tom Hanks said anything wrong. I’m 25 now, and I am over a decade past the age when parents still actively try to shield their kids from “foul language.”

I quote foul language because what the heck is wrong with these words? Why is “fuck” such a malicious word?

The answer is because we teach our kids that it is. If a kid happened to be watching Good Morning, America, and he or she watched Tom Hanks say the f-word, and if nobody reacted, then the kid would not even think twice about it. Not for a second.

But since they both reacted the way they did, and even going as far as apologizing for it, that kid will become curious as to what the word means. They will ask their parents about it, and they’ll possibly drop it at school when he or she is with their friends. And voila, just like that, the kid has learned the word.

Kids are ignorant. That’s the beauty of being a kid. So by shielding them from certain words, we instill the notion that they are “bad” words. It’s a stupid cycle.

If I am ever a father, I won’t actively swear in front of my kids. But if one slips in passing, I’m not going to preach to my son or daughter that I just said something reprehensible. I will try as hard as I possibly can to set a positive example for my children, however, I think there are much, much, more important things to teach them in life than about swearing every now and then.

Maybe in the 1950s, this was more acceptable within families. That was during the early days of TV, when programs like Father Knows Best was the hit show (see picture.) But now we have the Internet. We have Twitter. We have Showtime and HBO. To act like kids aren’t being exposed to “bad words” in this day and age is beyond naive. And that is why I was so taken aback when I saw that reaction on Good Morning, America.

Additionally, parents let their children play video games where it’s commonplace to shoot and kill people. They buy them toy guns. They have fights with their spouses in front of them. How is that not worse?

And somebody please tell me what the difference is between uttering an actual swear word, or abbreviating it to something like the “f-word,” or the “c-word,” or the n-word.”

When you abbreviate it, the word that still registers in my head is the word that you actually mean to say. When you say the “f-word,” my brain registers the word “fuck.” Therefore, I’m the one that is saying it instead of you. So how about, in the future, we drop the subtext and say what we want to say? Is that so hard?

Enrique Iglesias should never of had to rename his song to “Tonight I’m Loving You” so that it could get radio play.

Plus there’s no way that the uncensored version of that song isn’t Tom Hanks’s ringtone.

We can download the song on iTunes, we can sing it to our friends, but god forbid Enrique ever sang it live on Good Morning, America. How would the youth of our nation react?!

Say it ain’t so, Lance

In the early 2000s, cyclist Lance Armstrong became an icon and a hero. From 1999 to 2005, he won the esteemed Tour de France seven consecutive times, the Super Bowl of cycling that takes place over 23 days in July throughout France.

But it wasn’t solely the victories that propelled Armstrong’s popularity — it was his story. As everyone knows, in 1996, at age 25, Armstrong was diagnosed with stage three testicular cancer that had already spread to his lungs, abdomen and brain. His doctors told him that his chance of surviving the disease was less than 40%.

After undergoing treatment, Armstrong was miraculously declared cancer-free just four months later.

Three years later, he began his incredible 7-year run of Tour de France victories, and Lance Armstrong could do no wrong. He founded the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and within a span of weeks everybody across the world could be spotted wearing a yellow “Livestrong” bracelet. His cameo appearance in 2004’s Dodgeball is widely considered one of the funniest cameos in recent comedic history. He won the best male athlete distinction at the ESPYs from 2003 to 2006.

He was on top of the world and an inspiration to millions.

But even then, during the height of his reign, there was always claims that he was “doping,” an illegal process that involves boosting your number of red blood cells to enhance athletic performance. Regardless, Armstrong shrugged off the accusations, maintained his innocence, and we believed him. We believed because we wanted to believe him. Also, he never failed a urine test during any of his races.

Well, in late August, the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency officially concluded their investigation, determining that Armstrong did indeed partake in doping, stripped his titles and officially banned him from cycling. And on Oct. 17, Armstrong stepped down as the chairman of the Lance Armstrong Foundation in an effort to avoid any distractions to the organization.

Talk about a gigantic fall from grace.

On one hand, Armstrong cheated. And lied. Even his teammates testified against him. But at the same time, it took years of investigations to discredit him. It really seemed to me that it was indeed a witch hunt, even if he is guilty, which it obviously seems like he is.

And on the other hand, this man still survived cancer, and he has still inspired millions of people throughout the world through his foundation. As I said before, I have never seen anything in my life — perhaps besides Tomagotchis and crocs — become more trendy in such a short period of time than those Livestrong bracelets ten years ago. Even I had a one at the time, mainly because I wanted be cool. But at the time, Livestrong was cool. Lance Armstrong made cancer awareness cool. To say that he is not a leading pioneer in raising cancer funds and awareness would be a lie — cheater or not.

Plus his appearance in Dodgeball is still funny. I don’t care what anybody else says.

You haven’t really seen a public outlash against Lance Armstrong since this development occurred, and I think that is because nobody wants to hate him. Whenever baseball players are found guilty of using performance enhancing drugs, their entire career is defamed by the public, and nobody ever looks at them the same way again. Essentially, a convicted steroid user becomes an antagonist.

But you haven’t seen that with Armstrong. Granted, cycling isn’t really a sport that too many Americans actually care about. Again, with Armstrong, they were just interested in the story. Since Armstrong retired (for the second time), we haven’t really seen any coverage of the Tour de France on any major networks. Can you name one winner since Armstrong retired? Can you name one winner other than Armstrong, ever? Can anyone even ride a bike for more than 23 minutes, let alone 23 days?

And how can you hate on Lance? Doping or not, coming back from cancer and winning a near one-month long race is still something that, let’s see, one person in the history of our existence has ever done.

The fact that Armstrong was forced to resign from his foundation, and that Nike and other sponsors decided to drop him is very upsetting. I’d still sponsor Lance any day.

In fact, Sir Lance, I know you’ve never been knighted but I am going to call you Sir Lance anyway, if you are looking for sponsorship during this dark time — I will do it. The Weinblog will gladly sponsor you. I have no money to give you, but I will drop your name every now and then. Whether I am talking about Facebook or talking about girls, I will still manage to squeeze in the name Lance Armstrong.

I’m also not going to lie, I did some blood doping before writing this blog just to see if it would improve my performance.

It didn’t, and now I am feeling woozy and I think I need to go to the E.R.

Realizing that age is not just a number.

I have vague recollections of my childhood, from when my birthday would come around, and I would switch ages from something like 13 to 14. My parents would give me a cake and they’d say something like “You’re getting so old now!,” and I would blush and downplay the whole ordeal.

And that is because going from 13 to 14 means absolutely nothing. There’s not one single thing about your life that changes at that time. Okay, maybe your voice will hit a high note at some point while you are talking to somebody, which admittedly can be embarrassing, but it’s hardly a life-altering experience. And perhaps you’re now legally allowed to watch Are You Afraid of the Dark?  on Nickelodeon unsupervised. High five!

But somewhere along those birthdays, and somewhere along those celebratory cakes, you grow older. You hit your late teens, and then your 20s, and then beyond.

Once you hit 25, age is no longer just a number. I know people love to recite the cliché phrase, “Age is just a number,” but in all honesty — and excuse my language for all of the kids out there who read my blog — those people can go fuck themselves.

Age is way more than just a number.

When I was 15, I went to my doctor for a checkup, and my biggest concern was the type of band-aid that I was going to receive. Now, at 25, I sit in my doctor’s office and my concern lies with what type of life-ending disease my doctor will tell me that I have.

When I was 18, I could spend a night drinking alcohol with friends, and wake up the next day feeling like a million bucks. At 25, I spend a night drinking and the next day I feel like a rusty penny that’s been sitting on the edge of a New York City sidewalk that has been stepped on by 8,000 people for two consecutive weeks.

When I was younger, I could go a 6-hour car ride without even the mere possibility of having to make a bathroom break. Presently, if I can go a night without having to wake up and go to the bathroom then it is a giant accomplishment.

Also, the fact that the term “colonoscopy” is something that I have to at least think about, well that scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

At 25, people have changed the world. Not many — but some people have. Excuse my negative tone, I am certainly not writing this particular blog with the intention of frightening people, nor am I regretful of the life choices I have made at this point. I am simply acknowledging the fact that age is kind of important.

I am not entirely sure when it happens. When you’re 22, and even 23, you’re still kind of living your life masquerading as a teenager. You pretend that nothing has changed, and you party, and you don’t take your job seriously, but then all of a sudden you become 24, and 25. At that age, heartburn isn’t something you just wave off as commonplace. Instead, you think to yourself, “If this felt a little worse, I might die next time.”

And yes I am aware of the fact that I am still a very young guy. A 40-year-old would look at me and consider me a “kid.” And thank god for that. On a side note, I’ve decided to stop capitalizing “god,” mainly because I use the term as a figure of speech, and not an acknowledgement of Christ Almighty, because I choose not to force religion on people. That’s another realization that comes with age.

When I was 19, I considered it “waking up early” when I woke up at 11. If I can sleep past 11 now I feel like I’ve missed the entire day. I also genuinely become tired at around 10:30 at night.

Two Sundays ago, I feel asleep at 9 p.m. I was so tired that I closed my eyes and just happened to fall asleep. The worst part is, when I woke up from the slumber at around midnight, I wasn’t even mad that I missed the entire night. I wasn’t upset that I slept through Sunday Night Football, or the live recorded airings of Showtime’s Dexter and Homeland. Instead, I was happy with the rest that my body so sorely needed.

My 19-year-old self wants to come back and kick my ass. I know it. Right now, in an alternate dimension, he is standing right next to me, invisible, and giving me the finger while shouting obscenities. He’s probably also juggling and playing the harmonica at the same time, because when you’re 19, you’re still young enough to learn things. At 25, if you haven’t learned something by now, you probably never will. I know a lot of people learn to play the guitar once they reach their mid-life crisis, but I haven’t gotten there yet.

Again, I still know I am a young guy. 25 is nothing. There’s still whirlwinds of shit that I have yet to experience. And yet, with age also comes a lot of benefits — independence, wisdom, accolades. It’s not like there’s nothing to look forward to.

But at the same time, every human being has their own Dorothy-like moment, when they take a step back and say, “We’re not in Kansas anymore!” Well, I’ve never been to Kansas, nor will I probably ever (seriously, what the hell is there to see in Kansas?) but my realization is that I am no longer a spring chicken anymore. Every action has a consequence. Every teardrop is a waterfall. I don’t even know what that means but Coldplay wrote it so it must mean something.

With acknowledgement comes understanding and responsibility. Some might be ready for it and some might not be. But all I know is when that calendar rolls around, and that one day a year comes around that happens to be my birthday, the mood has gone from celebratory to somber. Every birthday goes from “Let’s get drunk!” to “Let’s all get together, because there’s a realistic chance we may never do it again!”

But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It allows you to fully appreciate a moment. Maybe I will take a second look at a sunset, and maybe I will actually double-check my credit card bill in an effort so save every penny. And perhaps I will start taking aspirin in the morning to prevent a depletion of my internal organs.

There’s plenty of upside that comes with the maturation process. Either way, it’s inevitable. Benjamin Button is not real. We all become older and we all go through the same life experiences. The only thing we can alter is our attitude, and how we handle it. Might as well do it with a smile on your face, right?

And on the 1/365 chance that a given day happens to be your birthday, and people are surrounding you with a birthday cake, alit with candles and a decorative number symbolizing your new age, and one of your coworkers who just happens to be named Millie approaches you with an unnecessarily huge grin on her face and says, “Age is just a number…”

Please do us all of a favor by removing one of the candles and shoving it directly into her face.

ANOTHER teacher?!

It’s gotten to the point where a blog could be started that is devoted entirely to stories about teachers who sleep with their students. These stories are becoming more and more prevalent by the day.

When a male teacher sleeps with a female student, it’s one of the more cruel acts that could ever occur to mankind. I myself I can be chauvinistic at times, but even I know how wrong that is. It’s a shameful and unforgiving act.

But when a female teacher sleeps with a male student, it’s kind of… the complete opposite. Females obviously will not feel that way, but when males hear about the stories, then two things come to mind.

1) “Niiiiiice.”

2) I must see pictures of the teacher.

I’m sorry ladies, but it’s pretty much every guy’s fantasy to sleep with his teacher. It’s right up there with the babysitter and the secretary.

Well folks, just recently, there was another one. 

The screwed up thing about this incident though, is that the boy “victim,” Justin Foster, posted text messages and nude photographs on his Twitter account that his substitute teacher, Anna Michelle Walters, sent to him via text message.

That’s just plain ol’ messed up. Whenever these incidents happen, and the teacher gets caught, I have no sympathy. When you commit such an act like sleeping with your student, you know the consequences and thus should have to bear them when they arrive.

However, usually the affair becomes exposed when the teacher makes a mistake. Usually it’s because she is seen out in public with her student, or because the student’s parents discovered the text messages that she sent to their son.

In this case, though, the student actually bragged about it on his Twitter. For no reason other than to just ruin the life of his substitute teacher, he flaunted the fact that they had sexual intercourse, and posted very revealing photos, and essentially ruined the life of Anna Michelle Walters. She’ll never find work again.

Okay, so I’ve gone long enough. Here is a photo of the teacher:

I mean, she’s like in the top 3 when it comes to any teacher in the universe who has ever slept with one of their students. This is one good-looking chick. If I was on a dating website — which I would never be — and I saw her photo, I might click on it.

Why do guys so desperately want to see a photo of the teacher? It’s because we want to live vicariously through the student’s life. He got to have sex with his teacher. A hot teacher, at that. While he was doing that, I was probably watching an episode of The New Girl starring Zooey Deschanel on my laptop while lying on my bed in my pajamas. Who had the better night?

And here’s a photo of the student she slept with:

Probably not who you had in mind. But I digress.

Sure, a girl might say to all of this, “At the end of the day, after the media attention, after all the deep scrutiny he’ll get, after all of the hateful Twitter messages he’ll receive, and after he comes to the realization that he ruined a women’s life — he may finally realize that having sex with her was probably not worth it.”

And you know, maybe you are right. Maybe. But, that being said…

So let’s get into the nut of this is issue, pun intended, and figure out why not only this specific incident happened, but why all cases of female teachers sleeping with their students happen.

I think I can give a fairly simple explanation. These women, although they are pretty now, clearly had social issues when they were in high school. They probably hadn’t blossomed yet, and therefore they were unpopular and went unnoticed. They drooled over the popular guys, but never spoke to them. In fact, they may have even been mocked by them. But now, several years later, they’re pretty and they’re the ones getting the last laugh.

However, high school wounds burn deep. You never quite let them go. Why do you think everyone freaks out when they hear about their upcoming 10-year high school reunion? Why do you think so many movies are made where adults go back to their hometown to get revenge on their high school bullies? And why are we never able to forget the first girl we ever had a real crush on, way back in high school?

Because those four years of high school affect us deeply. They were a big part of our lives, and helped mold us to what we became today.

So when these women who suddenly become attractive are back in high school — now as a teacher — they find themselves falling for the same bullshit that guys pulled when they were in high school to get girls to sleep with them.

They think, “Now I can get with the most popular guy in high school…” and it makes them happy. They feel the need to make up for their inabilities back when they were students. So they shove aside the whole legal issue, the whole morality issue, they ignore the consequences, and they go for it.

At the end of the day, girls still dig the popular guy, just like how guys still dig the popular girl. It’s innate.

That’s why I played it perfectly in high school. I was never “popular,” per say, but I was in the middle. I was friends with the popular kids and the nerds. I was liked by all. And that since hasn’t changed.

And look at me now! I’m finishing up this blog, and in a minute, I’m going to watch an episode of The New Girl starring Zooey Deschanel on my laptop while lying on my bed in my pajamas.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, a kid is having sex with his hot teacher.

God damn the world is unfair.

The fact that “celebrity chefs” exist speaks volumes about our culture

This afternoon I left work and stopped off at my usual nearby delicatessen to grab some lunch. While patrons wait a few minutes for their food, the deli conveniently has a flat screen TV set up for your viewing pleasure. Like any ADD-ridden American, my eyes always drift to that TV, but it’s always some awful daytime television program like a soap opera or Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Yes, remarkably, that show still exists.

But today there was something different. Apparently on ABC there is a show called “The Chew,” and it is a daytime talk show featuring celebrity chefs that centers around food.

At least with soap operas I get to look at hot chicks, and with Who Wants to be a Millionaire I get to watch random trivia, but with The Chew, my life is not improved in any way, shape or form.

I’d rather stare at the deli employee make my sandwich with his dirty non-washed hands than watch The Chew. I’d rather read the ingredients off the nearest bottle of coconut water than watch The Chew.

Food. Life. Fun. Is that the lesser known sequel to Eat. Pray. Love?

It simply amazes me that not only do celebrity chefs exist, but there are so goddamn many of them. First of all, the fact there’s an actual terminology to describe them is bad enough as it is. But when did this happen? When did television producers suddenly make the realization that chefs have such endearing personalities that they needed to be given their own shows?

I suppose it all started with Rachael Ray, who had a simple cooking show but then was handed her own daytime talk show called — creatively — The Rachael Ray Show.

At least she was bearable. She’s not that bad to look at it, and she was able to instill her culinary knowledge upon the American public. Good for her.

But then douchebags like Guy Fieri came along. And I’m not even being insulting when I use the word “douchebag.” Just look at the guy — he is a douchebag. 

Just like how some people are white, some people are black, some people are smart and some people are strong, Guy Fieri is a douchebag. It’s just the type of person that he is, and there are plenty more of them out there in the world.

But now there are so many celebrity chefs that I don’t even know their names anymore. Between all these reality shows, with half of them revolving around cakes, it’s gotten to the point where if you are a chef, and you’re not famous, then you probably suck at cooking and should choose a new profession.

If people are wondering what caused a spike in obesity in our country over the last several years, perhaps they should look no further than the spike in food-oriented television programs that have rapidly increased over that same span. Watching people eat, make and talk about food has suddenly become trendy.

It must suck to be a talented chef right now who has a shitty personality. Chefs will never be more “in” right now, and it does not matter how skilled you are if you can’t entertain an audience. Basically, cooking has become more about personality that it has ability.

If you are a chef, and you genuinely love preparing and cooking food, then shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t you be content with an oven, a frying pan and large bowl in your kitchen, and not a television camera? When you were a wide-eyed 20-something year-old in culinary school, didn’t you hope to one day be in charge of your own restaurant, and not in a mock-television studio/kitchen teaching some asshole celebrity like David Duchovny how to make steamed mussels in a two-minute segment while he shamelessly plugs the new season of his television show?

When did chefs lose all of their integrity? When did they sell out?

If some studio executive approached me and said, “Dude, we want to make a daytime talk show called ‘The Blog,’ with a tagline of ‘Write. Read. Laugh,’ and air it on our network!” Do you think I would accept that? Do you really think I would stop blogging about what I truly believe, and start blogging about what somebody tells me to blog about it? Do you think I would do that, even if they paid me millions and millions of dollars?

Yeah, I would totally do that.

Wouldn’t even have to think about it.