Who Wants Chicken?

"Flipping Out" stars Jenni Pulos, the El Pollo Loco chicken, and bitch scream queen real estate flipper (yah, he flips, sure he does) Jeff Lewis at some fucksense called the Annual Grill Master Challenge in L.A. on Wednesday.

I'd prefer to see the grill master, who they dumped for that raggedy-ass weepy chicken.

David Livingston/Getty Images

Weekday Vegetarianism

Treehugger.com blogger Graham Hill has a suggestion for helping to save the planet... and perhaps ourselves.



TY Miss Pasadena, Yvo

Rachael Ray Makes Me Sick

I was tuning in to watch Judge Judy, the Solomon of our time, when I was forced to lend one ear to the unfailingly annoying Rachael Ray, who was concocting something called Ranch Chicken Chili, an amalgamation of Ranch dressing and chicken chili. People applauded poblano chilis and other ingredients, leaving a giant WTF thought balloon over my head.

I once saw this dish on a sidewalk outside of Boardner's in Hollywood.

Chexy's Saturday Matinee

Here's a little gem from the Ed Sullivan Show... with Sammy Davis Jr. and Ella Fitzgerald.



Gnarly, dude!



Your Chexy has been eating a vegetarian diet for two weeks, and I feel great!




Here's Ruby Keeler and Lee Dixon in 1937's "Ready, Willing and Able."



ty Decaying Hollywood Mansions

Slicing

There's no pussyfooting around this... those are vagina cupcakes. I will not call them cuntcakes because that would be vulgar, and you know how I loathe vulgarity. Wouldn't you like to snatch up one of these and give it a lick? Well, not you, but someone. Vulvalicious!

ty Gunny

Apostrophe Catastrophe

These omelettes are possessive of something, I'm not sure what. Fluffiness?

As seen at a cafe in beautiful downtown Burbank, Calif.

Food, Inc.

If you haven't yet seen "Food, Inc." by Robert Kenner, you can watch it online at PBS.org until Thursday, April 29. Click the pic to watch it there.

Orange You Going to Eat That?

Gabourey Sidibe as she appeared today at a screening of "Precious" in Tokyo, and a large round plastic orange plate.

So alike, and yet only one makes food look unappealing.

Care for a Snack?

Here's that can of Chicken Bones you wanted.

Real Gone Places: Henrici's

Henrici's was a favorite restaurant and bakery of Chicagoans near the Merchandise Mart in Chicago, where they served coffee with a dollop of whipped cream. They were also known for their fine Finnan Haddie. And now, here's Eartha Kitt.








for S&J

Ham Army

Oscar nominee Gabourey Sidibe's bare arm at the Orange British Academy Film Awards on Sunday, and a Garfield's Boneless Smoked Ham.

So alike, and yet only one is truly delicious.

Amy and the First Lady

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, had a very rough day at school, with kids teasing her about being part of Michelle Obama's campaign against obesity in children.

"Am I obese, Ricky?" she lamented, while reaching for a celery stick. "Am I like Maury Pobitch fat?" She refuses to get his name right.


Amy has had a slight weight problem since she was 2, exacerbated by her recently blonded mother Carolyn's insistence on viewing the food pyramid as a tourist attraction. As you can see by Carolyn's expression, the Nile is, indeed, a river in Egypt.


"No, you're not obese, honey," I lied. "I like to think of you as delicious," which she is. "But you could follow the rules and eat sensibly," I paternally added.

"I'm thinking of going on a diet," she said, "because Mrs. Obama thinks I'm fat. At least I'm not stupid like those kids who say I'm obesity." She had an excellent point there, and I didn't have the heart to correct her usage.

"I mean, look at this cute outfit I have on!" I couldn't deny that her socks, faux tats and Converse were precious. Yes, I know, she's big for six.


She trundled off to her room to write Michelle Obama a letter. Here it is:

Dear Michelle First Lady,

My name is Amy. I'm 6. I'm sorry I'm so fat, but I'm big for six. I will try to lose weight. I think you are very beautiful. My imaginary friend Delilah is going to help me. Oh, and Ricky too.

Love,

Amy Elaine

P.S. Can Sasha and Malia come over sometime? My dad will make something not fattening.


Just after I finished reading it, Carolyn blew the horn (she can't come in per the court order). Amy grabbed her things and went outside to Carolyn's VW Jetta, where, as I watched from the window, she was handed a bag of food from Carl's drive-thru, which Amy refused!

Thank you, Mrs. Obama!


'Maury' Illustration by Rev. Josh of Life Without Taffy, from Chexy's collection.

Spot the Difference

Harrison Ford, an umbrella stem (center) and Calista Flockhart (right).

Amy and the Haitians

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, has decided to help the Haitians.

"What can I do for them, Ricky?" she asked while picking at a plate of greens, the likes of which she hadn't seen all week because Carolyn has substituted the McDonald's drive-thru for actual food preparation, and has convinced Amy (to a point of New England stubbornness) that pickle slices are a healthy green vegetable.


"I think the best thing we can do is give money," I said.


"But I'm a kid, I don't have money," she said rolling her eyes, wiggling her head forward and down while curling her smile into the "duh" expression so favored by Carolyn and her sisters, and while pushing arugula leaves to the perimeter of her favorite Mary Engelbreit plate. "I know, we can send all the vegetables you bought yesterday!"

"Nice try. How about taking up a collection at school?" I suggested, despite half knowing that Amy's weight-based unpopularity would be a likely impediment. (She's big for six.)

"I know! I'll ask rich people for money!" she exclaimed with the giddiness that typically accompanies brainstorms of the guileless. "I'll send some emails!" This also provided a task, the urgency of which necessitated immediate abandonment of salad.


And with that, she plopped herself on the couch with her Hello Kitty laptop and began her search for the excess lettuce of the cash-encumbered, while helping herself to a couple of Chiclets.


"I know! I'll write to Robert Pattinson!" she bleated with a confidence unfettered by realism, while chewing her gum. "Wow, check out this pic, Rick!"


"You can write to him in care of the Screen Actors Guild, and they'll forward it to him," I said with a mechanical indifference to seeing a vampire in his underpants.

Amy swiftly opened Word (I taught her to touch-type by writing the appropriate letters on her fingers) and typed: "Dear Bobby," she began, having earned familiarity by virtue of having her room wallpapered with "Twilight" clippings. "I am taking up a collection to help the people in Haiti. Can you send some money? P.S. I love you so much." And with that, she galumphed to my desk to print it.

We do what we can.

Amy and Cinnabons for Jesus

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, had a few erudite questions about the Christmas holiday, which I attempted to answer with the aplomb befitting a father who is also a daydreamer and pantheist.

"What's the deal with Christ?" Amy asked aggressively, "I don't get his whole thing," she mooed in the Boston drawl of her mother's side. "If he was so great, why'd they hang him up?"


"Well, dear," I hesitated, "Some people don't like it when you tell it like it is."

"If it's Jesus' birthday, how come we don't get him a present?" she asked.

"I think that's a splendid idea," waiting to suggest some charitable endeavor. Amy had other ideas.

"Let's go to the mall and get Jesus a Cinnabon."


"But Jesus died on the cross, Amy, and that has a way of killing one's appetite," I said, with the pithiness of a lifelong wisecracking mercenary. Amy laughed, "Okay, if he doesn't want it, I'll eat it."

At times, I wonder if Amy's past life was lived in Vaudeville.

"You can try your theory with some celery sticks and almonds," I trumped.

"What if he prefers candy?" she retorted. You know Christ has to be into dark chocolate." She had a point, and knew that I would accept nearly any excuse to get some See's candy to test her theosophical presumptions.


On the way back from the mall, with a mouthful of raspberry truffle, Amy bleated, "Chocolate is definitely Jewish." Her complex labeling was again not only food related but ethnically titillating. "How do you figure?" I honked.

"I'm going to have to work on my theory," she said, reaching for the box with a grin.

Amy was careful not to get chocolate on the new coat I bought her for Hanukkah. Yes, I know, she's big for six.