By Paul McGuire © 2008
I'm fascinated with Rachael Ray. It's not like stalkerish fascination where I'm digging through her garbage, tapping her phone calls, or breaking into her apartment when she's at work taping 30 Minute Meals and riffling through her underwear drawer. Well, it hasn't gotten to that phase yet. It might, because as each day passes, I can't stop thinking about Rachael Ray. She has infested my mind like a scorching case of herpes.
Life is made up of small simple pleasures. If scientists wired me up and monitored my inner happiness levels to determine which of my daily routines brings forth the most emotion and joy... without a doubt, the results would be off the chart when I do one of my favorite things... ripping bong hits then watching 30 Minute Meals.
My body sinks into the couch as soon as Rachael Ray comes on the screen. Rachael Ray's smile is intoxicating and any mentioning of EVOO sends orgasmic chills throughout my entire body. And when she grabs a fistful of meat, I wet myself. Large stains of semen and Rachael Ray love juice stream down my leg as I lose all control of bodily functions. Her mere appearance turns me into a blathering zombie and all I want to do is eat.
Eat. Eat. Eat.
No one sane can explain happiness or guilty pleasures or why certain things appeal to some people and the same thing totally disgusts others. For me, Rachael Ray has become a state of mind. I often wander the streets of foreign cities with a growling stomach in search for food wondering, "What would Rachael Ray do?"
Rachael Ray has influenced my everyday vernacular more so than Snoop Dogg did in the 1990s, even though I still randomly interject "wizzle" and "Shiznit" from time to time. However, with my recent emotional attachment to Rachael Ray, I can't wait to get into conversations with snooty high society types and drop Rachael Rayisms like "Yum-o!" and "Sammies."
Don't be confused. This is not a sexual fascination. I don't want to fuck Rachael Ray. I don't think anyone can actually fuck Rachael Ray because she gets off, way off, on simple things like produce and spices, how the hell can someone expect to bring someone like that to an orgasm? Maybe if you shove a few chorizo sausages up her ass and pull them out really quick.
I'm turned on by Rachael Ray's knife work. She has her own line of knives. I always wait to see if she slices her finger off. That would be one of the most talked about shows ever... the one where she loses a tip... and doesn't stop. The show must go on and even with 9.8 fingers, Rachael Ray manages to whip up some sort of pasta and cheese concoction.
Before this year, I had never bought a cookbook in my life. I have read cookbooks and borrowed them, but I have never actively purchased one for myself or as a gift. I have now bought five different Rachael Ray cookbooks and given them as gifts. Mostly everyone is sort of curious about her so they get excited when they find out that I marked a special moment (birthday, Christmas, or Kwanzaa) with an authentic Rachael Ray cookbook.
I love to share the love. And no one cooks better love than Rachael Ray.
I find myself thumbing through her cookbooks whenever I'm at a bookstore like Barnes and Noble in New York City or at Borders in Hollyweird or at a random bookstore in some random airport. I flip through the pages and look for pics and it's like I'm reading porn magazines. Food porn. And Rachael Ray is my Traci Lords. OK, so maybe I do want to jack off on Rachael Ray's tits as she makes me a mushroom burger.
Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.