Well, alright then. I’ve been doing this bit on WZLX for over 4 years now, and I’ve got plenty of them, but considering I’ve been seeing more ripoffs of it, I thought I might as well stake my claim. Listen to all of them here: The THAT GUY Archive! There are many more here.
Well Hey there, bellyitchers. So after getting pelted with golf balls on Friday almost as often as Kevin gets pelted with warnings about heart disease from his doctor, I went out to dinner with the future-ex-wife and her college friend and her hipster fiancé, and right before we commenced our exercise in generic romantic urban sitcom setups, we had to order what we were going to wolf down, seeing how I was starving more than Kevin if he was kept at arm’s reach from an all-you can eat burrito bar.
Well, I had my chubby eyes on a meatloaf sandwich, when I suddenly lost my appetite When the waiter asked Horn-rimmy Von-Scarf McSkinnyJeans if he wanted fries or mashed potato as a side, he hemmed and hawed and said, verbatim” Actually, is there any chance the chef might have some risotto back there?” That’s when I realized I was sitting across from That Guy – That Guy the foodie.
Call them picky eaters, Top Chef Enthusiasts, or just stuck up assholes, but these sensitive-tongued snobs are gobbling up every bit of my patience. After the waiter told him no and walked off, he actually said it was just as well, since even if they had risotto, it probably wouldn’t have been made from organic whole grain rice and chicken broth and more likely “a ghastly chemistry project combining store-bought Bouillon and minute rice”. Well la-ti-da, Mr. Fancybritches, I’m sorry our little Irish pub isn’t up to snuff for your hi-falutin’ culinary cutesy-cuisine standards.
Jeez Louise, I thought it was nice we had an option other than fries, so I could make a little mash potato volcano and then use the gravy as delicious lava that wiped out the villagers of Cornnibblet-town. So I like to play with my food, and I like it when my soup has more random letters in it than a Law and Order Fan’s DVR saved programs list, that doesn’t make me any less sophisticated or adult than you. No offense, but anybody who’s ilk is responsible for me being exposed to the knowledge that worthless sacks of flesh like Guy Fiery and Alton Brown are not only famous but rich and not ostracized and banished from society deserve to be ground into slurry and served to cats.
Speaking of which, I bet these trendy tubs of taste buds would eat a kitten with a Spork served on a dirty ashtray if their gastronomical gods like Boirdain and Ramsey told them it was the latest rage. While I’m happy mowing down three day old Kraft dinner and a couple of ketchup packets 3 times a day, these knob chompers wouldn’t chomp any knobs unless it is prepared according to their silly arbitrary and unnecessary rituals and practices. Hell, cranberry juice is too fancy for me and I’ll only drink it if I’ve got another UTI, but this dude wouldn’t touch it unless it was blessed by Buddhist albino monks on a Tibetan mountainside after being grown in a free range organic bog.
What can you expect from someone who orders a raw koi Ceviche with cerrano chili served on a bed of blood oranges with a douche reduction and a fried avocado sauce strained through the soul of a unicorn, without a side order of irony? Dudes like this are just like the times I wake up startled and sweaty because I was having the blanking-on-my-lines-in-the-high-school-production-of-The-Metamorphosis dream again – they’re both useless AND annoying.
When the zombie apocalypse comes, and oh, it is coming, you’re going to tell me these finicky fussers are going to thumb their snooty noses at a cold can of beans because they aren’t Spanish grown garbanzo? You know the zombies aren’t going to be discerning between my brains and Lindsay Lohan’s, so you shouldn’t be so persnickety, poofball, or else I’ll take that scarf, salt it up, and cram it up your cramhole. That way, you’ll get your fiber, but won’t have to taste it. Do me a favor, don’t be that guy.