Not That You Asked: Gordon Ramsay Edition
Dear Gordon Ramsay,
Before you get too pleased with yourself, you should know I didn’t think of you immediately for column number two. I was all set to dish out some tough love to poor, benighted Samantha Ronson, but when she and Lindsay (allegedly) got back together for some ex-sex and more in London this week, I figured you can’t help anyone who doesn’t want to help herself.
I then planned to turn my attention to the inummerable woes of Jon and Kate Gosselin, who have been on the cover of US Weekly for about twelve years straight (whilst modeling her stunning collection of bathing suit cover-ups — look for an HSN collection soon) but all my advice for them is retroactive — don’t spend three years insulting your spouse and kids on national television, don’t do a reality show in the first place, don’t have eight kids — which again, is not helpful. Their lives are ruined, as are the lives of all 37 of their adorable Eurasian children, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it except to say that this is the best of all possible worlds and it couldn’t possibly be any other way.
Then I thought of Oprah, who it seems has had kind of a rough week, with that Newsweek story about how she’s a quack. But unlike some people, I know my limits. He who flies too close to the sun will surely plummet back to earth, his wings melted, his body broken like a twig in the fist of a thoughtless child.
And so, Mr. Ramsay, my gimlet eye has fallen on you.
I shall begin, as always, with a litany of your woes (as I am a lady, restrain myself from using any unnecessary profanity — I hope this doesn’t make you too uncomfortable.) First, a rather hard-looking woman with an unnerving propensity toward awkward candor, and, shall we say, a healthy disregard for the traditional bonds of marriage claimed to have had an affair with you. This caused rather a larger scandal in Britain than here — we Yanks tend to save our best sanctimonious hypocrisy for the transgressions of our politicians, and dole out nothing stronger than titillated pity for our fallen celebrities, providing they go directly to rehab and don’t mess with the Jews — but still, it’s rather a stupid idea to skulk around doing poppers in hotel rooms when you’ve built your brand around being a devoted family man, what with your adorable wife and your adorable pigs and adorable turkeys and adorable sheep about whom your adorable British children say adorable things before they are slaughtered (the pigs, not the children). It might be even stupider when your business partner and chief investor is your father-in-law.
Not that your recent business problems have anything to do with that. After all, what’s a daughter or two when there’s empire to run? But an empire is, almost by definition, overextended. Rome fell when its outposts could no longer hold, plunging the world into the Dark Ages, when people presumably wandered aimlessly around in small bands, foraging for food and occasionally engaging in vigilantism, like in “The Road.” And while the sun may have never set on the British Empire, that made it hard to see what the natives were getting up to. In your case, it seems the natives have been serving boil-in-the-bag meals, indulging in the modern miracle of freeze-dried produce, and generally making a mockery of your entire cooking philosophy.
Also, nobody has any money anymore. Business is bad. I heard you had to sell your Ferrari to pay off some debt; and now, presumably having cracked under the strain, you launched a bizarre tirade against an Australian journalist in which you called her a lesbian pig and displayed a photograph of a pig woman with three breasts. (My apologies if my characterization of said rant is not precisely accurate; you don’t think I actually have the time to research this kind of thing, do you?)
Tracy Grimshaw, the journalist in question, appears to be quite well-known and beloved in Australia, and given your ubiquity here and in the UK, it’s kind of like if Emeril went on “The View” to tell the ladies just what Katie Couric will do for a bump of speed, then proceeded to scrape a wad of stale semen out of the tip of his penis and feed it Sherri Shepherd. Sorry, is that too much? Did I cross a line? Now you know how Australia feels!
So Gordon, my advice to you, you wrinkled fucking sack of Scottish turds, is to pull your fat fucking head out of your bunghole, put your willy back in your fucking trousers and sort your shit out, yeah?
Translation: go on television.
Luckily, you’re already on television. This will make my suggestion much easier. Swap out one of your million shows where you fix people’s restaurants (I suggest the American one — Americans, for all their bluster, are a trifle delicate for your approach) and do one where you fix your own. Healer, heal thyself.
Network executives! May I present to you: “Gordon Ramsay Slags Off, Bullies, and Ultimately Redeems Himself” or “Gordon Ramsay Sorts Out Gordon Ramsay.” How’s this for a pitch:
Using the technical wizardry employed in such beloved classics as “The Parent Trap” (or depending on budget, a simple hand mirror) volatile, world-renowned chef Gordon Ramsay descends on the failing restaurant of volatile, world-renowned chef Gordon Ramsay, and through his trademark mix of creative profanity, bullying, and insistence on “classic British flavors” (for example, haddock) pulls the venture from the precipice of bankruptcy and warms the hearts of all. “Gordon Ramsay is right,” says a grateful Gordon Ramsay, “I’m a sniveling overgrown fuck-muffin with a head full of rotten fucking cauliflower, but if I can just get down to the bloody fucking fish market once a day to buy some fresh fucking mackerel all my problems will be solved.”
“Good on you, Gordon Ramsay,” says Gordon Ramsay, removing his damp chef’s coat to reveal his artfully tanned and highlighted torso. “Quit being a fucking twat. Don’t use frozen vegetables, and save your best insults for when you’re getting paid, don’t fuck women with fucking books to sell, and you’ll be fucking sorted, all right.”
And then, with nothing more than a manly nod, Gordon Ramsay strides away. A small boy from a third world country materializes at his side, and they begin to kick a football playfully between them, as Gordon Ramsay stands on the threshold of his newly saved flagship, squinting bravely, and a little tearfully, into the blinding English sun.
Cut, and print.
You see, Gordon? You don’t need me at all. The answers, my son, are all in you.
Not that you asked.
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