Wines & Fine Dining, a new show focused on elegance, haut couture, and restaurants for those with a discerning taste, recently finished taping its pilot episode for the local television studios and both Groff and I were fortunate enough to be in the audience. How'd we pull that off? Well, sometimes people named Stefan leave things lying around their locker in the breakroom, which occasionally gets kicked open (on accident) during my lunch hour. So I found two tickets and a card that read, "To Brumhilda, with love" with a poem written on the inside. Yeah, it went like this: "I love you more than Summer's breeze/I love you more than Swiss cheese/To you, I pledge my life/Brumhilda, be my wife"
Knowing I could write better poems in my sleep I tore the card up and kept the tickets. You wouldn't think so, but I'm not really one for all that fancy-pants restaurant crap, (serve me up some well made chili in a cowboy hat, or even a boot, and I'm happy) but finding those tickets put me in a good mood; it felt like God was thanking me for being such a fine Christian. With this in mind, I made sure those bathroom stalls would sparkle by the time I'd finished and to actually put up 'Wet Floor' signs when mopping. I was in high spirits as I left work, but on my way out I couldn't help notice Stefan sitting at the table in the breakroom, head in his hands, crying. "Must be getting in the zone for one of his stupid poems" I thought and got the hell out of there.
Fast forward to the day of the taping and you have Groff and I, along with fifty-some odd other people, excited to watch a five star chef cook some five star cuisine. Everyone was lined up in the corridor leading to the set when one of those backstage producer types came in with an announcement; "If I could briefly have your attention please. This will only take a few moments" he said.
Silence.
"Thank you. It seems I have some bad news. The budget initially scheduled for Wines & Fine Dining has been revised and, unfortunately, we are not able to prepare the meal we'd originally planned. I don't wish to name names, but you may notice some staff are taking this worse than others. We don't want a few Negative Nancies spoiling our fun though, do we?"
"NO!!" all the middle aged, middle class couples in their designer clothes yelled, brimming with over enthusiasm.
"Alright, that's the spirit! Now if you'll all begin filing through these doors and taking your seats, we should begin filming in twenty minutes."

We filed through, took our seats, and soon enough the lights dimmed and an announcer's voice was heard.
"Ladies and gentleman, welcome to our first episode of Wines & Fine Dining, where we highlight only the classiest of entrees, hors d'oeuvres, and wines which taste best for people who have the best taste. This is no ordinary cooking show, this is culinary art! So without further adieu, I present, your host, the one, the only, Chef Charmin!
The applause sign blinked on and off, prompting everyone to stand and clap while a spotlight centered on stage left. After a while people's hands were either too tired or sore to continue and again there was silence. Just when things were about to get awkward, a small man in white stumbled into the kitchen set.
When we first entered the room a few couples had been chosen to sit at tables in front, that way they could taste, firsthand, the delicious delicacies Chef Charmin would be serving. Neither Groff nor I were among those couples; I couldn't help but get a bit angry over this since I was so damn hungry. Now with the show starting I realized how much more I'd rather watch it than be a part of it, mainly because I could tell how drunk the chef was. The swagger, the muscatel, one hand down the front of his pants. He was drunk all right and I had this strange sensation I was looking in a mirror. Perhaps it was the hand in the pants that did it, I'm not sure, but the crowd let out a unified "ewwwwwww."
To this Chef Charmin yelled "SHUTUP!"and got what he asked for.
"Welcome to Wines & Fine Dining. I'm your chef, Shane Charmin and" he took a swig of wine, "tonight I'll be preparing some fantastic dishes for you all. Real fucking fantastic" he said, rolling his eyes. "So why don't we kick things off with an appetizer? Maybe some soup?"
Chef Charmin approached one of the tables, placed both his knuckles on the edge, leaned toward the couple and said in the softest, gentlest voice, "You like soup? You want some soup? I'm gonna fix you some soup. Some nice, warm, creamy, tomato soup. How's that sound?"
It was obvious the two had been put off by Charmin's outburst, that combined with his sour breath at such a short distance made them eager to go along with anything he might ask.
Husband looked at wife, wife at husband, then both back to Charmin and nervously the man said, "That sounds terrific. We'd love some tomato soup." Both smiled.
"Well isn't that cute? You hear that folks? They love tomato soup!" he shouted, "Let me tell you something, you folks are in for a real treat, I'm gonna whip this up using an old secret family recipe. Watch this."
Saying this he walked over to the fridge and opened the door; bottles clanged as his hands searched frantically for the right ingredients. "Ahhhhh, here we are" he said, and we knew he'd found what was needed. Pulling his arms back from the fridge only two items were held in his hands: a bottle of milk and a ketchup container.
He placed the two items on the counter and produced a large bowl from the cabinets below saying, "all you gotta do is mix three parts ketchup with one part milk" and poured both ingredients into the bowl. He stirred for a minute and then placed the bowl in this huge industrial sized microwave.
"Now we wait" Charmin said, adding, "and I don't know about you but I'm using this time to take a leak." While the microwave hummed, its contents sizzling and spattering, the chef grabbed a caraffe, turned his back to the crowd and relieved himself; one hand holding the glass bottle, the other scratching his ass. The soup finished just as he did and with a look of relief Charmin placed the half-full caraffe on the counter. Quite satisfied, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Then he took the soup from the microwave and brought it to the hungry couple, both hands steady under the bowl. Removing a hand, placing it around the woman's shoulder he said, "Smell the soup, it's delicious. " He slowly raised the bowl to accommodate her, repeating, "Smell the soup." The hand which was around her shoulder now stroked her hair; she bent forward to get a good whiff and Charmin made his move. Bringing his hands toward one another, Charmin gently pressed the woman's face into the bowl of soup and vice versa. While she turned back and forth splashing red liquid, Chef Charmin said, "Oooh yeah that's it. Get in there good. Eat that soup, girl." Then he let the bowl drop, shattering on the table, sending soup everywhere.
Unable to withstand any further offenses the husband, outraged, stood up rolling his sleeves. "That's enough" he said, while Charmin threw his head back and filled his mouth with muscatel, cheeks bulging. Meanwhile the wife cried, looking a lot like this kid I once tripped down some stairs. Pretty pathetic indeed. Adrenaline surged through my veins at the prospect of seeing a fistfight yet, at the same time, I was afraid Chef Charmin might get beat up. With every passing second my admiration grew for him more and more; the last thing I wanted was him to be defeated by some shmuck in a Polo sweater.
The man approached Charmin, cheeks still full, and brought his arm back to punch. He had another thing coming though, because in that same instant Charmin spat out wine like a firehose. Overwhelmed with triumph, he proceeded to put his arms behind his back, flapping and dancing like a chicken.
"Booyah bitches!" Groff screamed, along with myself adding, "Yeeeeeah boyyyeeeee!"
Other folks chimed in too, only they gasped and booed while the couple ran off set. Charmin bowed.
When everyone quieted down he spoke to the next couple in line, saying: "I'm feeling ethnic. Let's move on to our entree. I hope you like Southwestern cuisine." They nodded. The chef smiled and shuffled over to the counter where he knelt down a moment. Cans and curse words both flew from underneath while we waited to see what Charmin would cook up next. Finally he emerged with two large cans which, judging from the image on front, looked like they had some sort of processed beef inside. Well I knew what was up an instant later when he placed an old boot next to the cans. Following my genius discovery Charmin announced that he'd be preparing, you guessed it, CHILI.
Oh boy was I red in the face! There I was starving and just mere yards ahead, waiting to be cooked, all hot and delicious, smelling of feet spices, would be some real authentic canned Southwestern style chili. Those few moments of bitter hatred toward the chef didn't last long though; as quickly as the chili had been poured into the boot, it was just as quickly thrown at the faces of the husband and wife, making a gentle thud as heel connected with the man's nose and a soft slosh as its contents splattered onto his adjacent wife. Chef Charmin didn't say anything, he just blew on his index fingers like they were smoking revolvers.
After a record ninety seconds of wine chugging he told the crowd it was time for dessert, a pronounced slur blurring his words. His eyes looked a little sluggish for that matter, his swagger now exaggerated as he went backstage. Assistants rushed on from the sidestage carrying watermelons which they placed on a large, oversized cutting board.
Chef Charmin returned dragging what looked like an enormous baseball bat. From where I was sitting I couldn't make out the whole object, however, it was obvious this was bigger than a bat. It wasn't until he raised the blunt thing above his head that I realized it was a mallot!
And then:

Bam!

Thwack!

Splash!

Watermelon pulp, juice, seeds all over the place!!! Everybody went nuts, screams, shrieks, jeers, you name it. Again Chef Charmin bowed, though I'm sure it didn't matter much as everybody was now leaving, grumbling in disgust. Groff and I weren't interested in taking off just yet so we stuck around until everyone was gone. After ten minutes we approached Charmin, flooding him in adulation. He appreciated our passion for the culinary arts and, although he declined giving his autograph (on account of being unable to hold a pen steady), gave us each three cases of toilet paper!
Groff was excited about that, saying, "Oh man! We can have the shits for a week with a supply like this!" We high fived and left, but not before shaking Chef Charmin's hand.
I wish that feeling of excitement, pure joy, and complete happiness could have lasted forever. Sadly it did not. See, the pilot of Wines & Fine Dining received horrendous reviews, prompting the suits behind its production to fire Charmin, replacing him with some prick who sautees "esscargo" whatever the hell that is.
Now that's just disappointing.
And people wonder why I hate TV so much.