the socks of the sea

What is it with Gordon Ramsay and fucking scallops?! In each of the 83 shows he seems to have spread between U.S. and U.K. channels, the solution to everyone’s issues is fucking scallops. High dining does not suggest to me feasting on the sock of the sea, give it up, Gordon. Sure, I know people that like scallops–like three of them–but you can’t tell me that scallops inherently cater to those with a sophisticated pallet.  I bathe in money daily and certainly appreciate anything and everything expensive. My pallet for superficial luxuries is refined and unrivaled. I’m positive my sophisti-cat wouldn’t even eat scallops and at 16-plus pounds he’ll obviously eat almost anything.

It’s simply incredible how attached Ramsay is. Overweight and disgustingly tattooed line cook on Hell’s Kitchen? Cook the scallops right and maybe he won’t take a shit on your face. Failing and cockroach-infested country bumpkin restaurant on Kitchen Nightmares? Give your roaches some scallops and they’ll class up and move out. Bed-bug-filled urban hostel of horror on Hotel Hell? Shove some scallops in those sheets and guests won’t know what hit them. Inspiring home cook on Master Chef, and professional single mother who thinks she’s the first single mother in the history of humanity?  Feed your spawn some scallops and maybe he won’t go into shellfish-induced anaphylactic shock. You get my point. Maybe we should suggest that the U.S. Congress sit down to a huge 600-person dinner of scallops, after which we may have a functioning legislature. We can invite the President and his Cabinet, and, of course, candidate Romney would have to come too because he’s a huge rich asshole who is guaranteed to love scallops.  And sister wives.


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