There’s Never Room for This

JELL-O mold, what are you and why? It’s not so much that you’re named after something toxic. That I get. But more that you prance through this world resembling a dessert when in reality, you’re just a side dish. That’s right...a side dish. But here’s the thing: Who eats a side dish that sucks? Or one that trembles? Nobody likes food that's uncomfortable in its own skin. On your best day, you’re tolerated. On your worst, you're thrown up repeatedly. If I’m ever going to indulge, I'll tell you one thing: It will be for a lot of money. And on TV. And never in this life. Ever.

In Poor Taste

Dear Egg Nog,

It's been a while since I wrote and I just wanted to touch base to express how I was feeling about you this holiday: Not good. Who do you think you are? Holiday or no holiday, a drink shouldn’t be spreadable. You haunt my dreams with your audacity to exist; not to mention your eerie non-resemblance to anything edible. And your holiday card? (Pictured above) Not since The Shining twins have I seen a more startling duo. You’re like a cup of barf with a dash of nutmeg. An oral enema. Drano. Could you be any thicker? If I wanted a glass of tree sap, I would’ve just made out with a Fir. You’re even stiffer than Pepto Bismol –- ironic because that’s your most popular chaser. And Egg Nog Light? How dare you. That’s like cheesecake light. A 980 calorie drink. Awesome. You may think you go down smooth -- and you do, if you consider a chainsaw wrapped in barbed wire smooth. Please, just quit it. The holidays can be depressing enough.

Sincerely,

Not a Fan

I'm an Artichoke, Eat My Heart Out

Artichoke, who do you think you are? You may taste delicious when lathered up in a small farm’s worth of butter. But so much work. You may have a heart, but burying it beneath 68 layers of prickly leaves and a beard? That’s a prick move. Who has time for such foreplay – especially when the amount of edible substance on each leaf barely comprises the word “morsel.” You’re like the anti-Giving Tree. That tree gave everything. You? Nothing. A-hole.

I’ll Have the Carcinoma on White, Please

Mortadella, what the hell are you? That is, besides utterly mortifying? I ask because I prefer not to eat something that looks like it threw up all over itself. Here’s the thing: Lunchmeat shouldn’t have the consistency of John McCain’s taint. Or be crunchy. So please mortadella, stop bitch slapping me through the deli counter window. The experience is like being at the Miss Universe pageant – before Lisa Lampanelli shows up wearing a thong. Tasteless and ill-advised. Just say what you are, okay? Nitrites, rat droppings and whatever else can be jammed into that sleeve. Make no mistake, charlatan, you're fucking bologna.

Pad Choice

Pad Thai: If you could add just a bit more oil into your recipe – that would be great. It’s not enough that you induce three-day food comas. Or that while eating you, my cholesterol shoots up like Courtney Love at a rave. It’s more the pool of regret I feel in my soul after snarfing down a plate of you. Don’t get me wrong. You taste amazing. But so does a brick of fudge. And you don’t see me jamming that down my gullet on a weekday “lunch” whim. Just call yourself what you are: 1000 calories of self-hate. And PS. Since when did a pile of nuts become a garnish? Seriously. Nuts? Fuck off. And take your fat-filled Thai iced tea milkshake with you.

Something's Fishy

Fish in a jar? Really, gefilte fish? You’re the laughing stock of the ethnic food world. Do you even come from the sea? I’ve never heard a fisherman boast of his catch by saying: “Gee, Sal, the gefiltes are really biting today.” The one who’s not biting? Me. Even fasting rarely leads to your consumption. You wonder why no one consumes you outside of Jewish holidays? Because when someone has to lather you up in horseradish to make you palatable, you've got issues. And that gelatinous afterbirth you’re packed in? “Jelled Broth?” I mean, seriously, haven’t the Jews been persecuted enough?