Paul Prudhomme
Spike was making fettucine alfredo; I was browsing her cookbook collection. "Is he wearing a kilt made of kielbasa?" I asked, holding up the book cover.
"He does seem to be," she admitted.
There was a moment's contemplative silence. "I suppose it could be an interesting conversation piece," I mused. "'Get on your knees and nibble my sausage!'"
Spike sighed heavily and stirred the white sauce.
"Is it my imagination," I said a moment later, "or does Prudhomme bear a disturbing resemblance to Dom DeLouise?"
"That's because he ate him," she said patiently.
"Wow," I gasped. "I hadn't realized. You sound like you've given it some thought."
"Oh, I decided that years ago."
I stared at the picture. Did his merry grin suddenly look a little more...feral? "Well, I guess it was sort of a public service, really."
"Yeah," Spike said, "but if Liz Taylor disappears, I'm getting nervous."
comment by magid:
Have you seen Who's Killing the Great Chefs of Europe?
comment by Sebbo:
I have not. Do you recommend it?
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There are tantalizing hints that improvement can be more dramatic when diversity is eliminated, such as single gender classes, blacks performing better when reinforced by their own successes.
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Pretty much not much going on worth mentioning. I can't be bothered with anything recently. Maybe tomorrow. That's how it is.
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I haven't been up to anything today. I've more or less been doing nothing to speak of. More or less not much notable going on today. That's how it is.
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Nothing seems important. I've just been sitting around waiting for something to happen. What can I say? It's not important. I guess it doesn't bother me. My life's been basically dull.