Shut the Fuck Up!

I’m sorry, but “Hells Kitchen” fucking rocks. I can’t think of many activities as enjoyable as coming home on a Monday night and unwinding with chef Gordon Ramsey. And yes, I’m totally crushing. Gordon Ramsey, curling his index finger and chillingly yelling, “come here, you!” God, that’s sexy! Gordon Ramsey, donned in black, playing darts at Cat & Fiddle on Sunset. Hot! Gordon Ramsey, hooking eliminated contestants’ chef coats on the little meat hook hangers. Move over, Leatherface!

One of the many things I love about the show is how incredibly fast-paced it is. Unlike most reality shows, the show doesn't bother wasting much time letting you get to know the contestants. The only time we ever get a glimpse of what they’re like outside the kitchen is while they’re whining outside in a cloud of smoke or passing kidney stones. Yeah, whatever. And if you’re ever unaware, there’s always the trusty narrator to remind you exactly what’s going on. I wonder what that’s like...

“Eti isn’t fairing well. She’s realized that the copier has run out of paper mid-motion. She must act quickly to ensure that each page is copied correctly.”

The other thing about the show that I find quite enjoyable, is that you know exactly who’s going to be eliminated. There are no surprises. There’s no Trump saying, “Michael, you were sweating while you cooked the lobster. I hate people who sweat. You’re out!” There’s no bullshit he-said she-said or psychobabble. No, “I was such a beautiful chef growing up that I wanted to cut my face with a fileting knife.” The show basically cuts out all the unnecessary reality show foreplay of “I wonder who’s going to get eliminated?” It’s just, you suck, get out. And for that, I am grateful more than words can say.

The one downside? I always get hungry after the show. It doesn’t fail. Yesterday, I lay in bed dreaming of salad with feta cheese. Not sure how I came to that, but it sounded really good.

Anyway, as for last night’s episode, I think Jeff was a total pussy and I have serious doubts as to the lady who got sick off of Andrew’s salty risotto. Speaking of Andrew, that kid’s got creepy-ass Scott Peterson written all over him. Ew.