6 Food Network Stars I Would Like To Have Sex With
I don’t actually want to have sex with Guy Fieri. I just want to get him alone in a room so I can punch him in the face and shave off his stupid hair. Then I will say “That’s how we do haircuts in Flavor Town,” put on my sunglasses, and listen as The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” blares in the background. Beat that, sex.
Every Friday, Ina devotedly prepares her beloved husband Jeffrey a chicken dinner when he returns from work, and every week I watch him devour it and yell, “That’s my chicken dinner you’re eating, you son of a bitch!” Clearly there’s something amiss in the house of Garten. Jeffrey disappears all week to “work in the city,” leaving poor Ina to gallivant about the Hamptons, cooking for rich old maids, arranging flowers with gay men, and pursuing tedious conversations with the guy at her cheese shop. (Actually, it’s in the Hamptons, so it most certainly is “Shoppe”) Can’t you see that the thrill is gone, Ina? Jeffrey may have tired of your black shirts with the popped collars, or the way you call adding coffee to any chocolate recipe as “your little secret,” even though you’ve done it 500 times on national television, but I never will. Jeffrey’s not working in the city, Ina, he’s visiting some flirty little trollop, like, like…Sandra Lee. Sandra Lee, Ina! The woman who starts every recipe with instant pudding mix! But not me. I will never stray. I will never tire of your roast chicken, or the wonderful way you say “How easy was that?!” In fact, I’ve thought of several new uses for your catchphrase, and only 90% of them are sexual. OK…95%. Would you believe 98?
I just think it would be fun to have sex while entirely coated in butter. What’s wrong with that?
Giada De Laurentiis
Giada is the flirty sexpot of the Food Network. When she goes to make copies, Masaharu Morimoto pretends to be out of paper clips so he can casually chat with her by the office supplies for a few minutes. When she spills coffee on her blouse, Bobby Flay and Tyler Florence always appear out of nowhere with damp towels eager to help her blot. And every time she sees Robert Irvine, he’s flexing for no reason. It’s pathetic, really. But Giada is a food siren, and I am just as powerless as any other man to resist her charms. The production of her show certainly doesn’t help. Every recipe featured on Giada at Home or Everyday Italian is one part food ingredients and two parts cleavage. I don’t know if she’s ever actually chopped a vegetable, because every time she bends over the cutting board the camera ignores the food and just pans down her sweater, hoping for a glimpse at the dueling De Laurentii. And to be fair, they are glorious. I know it’s an obvious choice to have the hots for Giada, but I’m only human. Plus, who doesn’t want to have homemade Bruschetta after intercourse? Or during, for that matter?
Down Home with The Neelys is an entirely underrated Food Network gem. Basically, Pat and Gina Neely dance around their Memphis kitchen cooking barbecue, flirting, and whispering vaguely sexual encouragement to each other as they go. Gina will pour sauce on some ribs and Pat with mutter, “Yeah baby, that’s just how Daddy likes it.” Or Pat will be whipping up some peach cobbler and Gina will exclaim “Don’t even think about skimping the brown sugar. You know I like my peaches covered in brown sugar!” It’s insane. If you turned off the picture and just listened to the Neelys cook, you’d swear it was some sort of weird hardcore pornography that was obsessed with pork and ham hocks. I’d like a little alone time with Gina because 1) she laughs at everything her husband says, which is great for the ego, and 2) I have always wanted to be told to “Put some more butter on those grits” in a sexual context.
Elizabeth Falkner is a steely lesbian who specializes in cakes and pastry, and with any justice will be deemed the next Iron Chef. I, on the other hand, am a wimpy man whose gluten allergy makes cake and pastry a complete disaster, and I regularly burn scrambled eggs. What can I say? I have a thing for long shots.
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My grandfather’s mother was raped by her stepfather or uncle (no one can really be sure) when she was fourteen. They lived in rural Illinois, and, at fourteen years old she had her first baby, my grandfather’s brother Sonny.
It’s not as if you’re going to feel it less, just because you’ve been there before.
I wish you a thousand more years of presence and popularity on Earth, and I hope you never have a Hostess style financial breakdown so that we may continue to enjoy you for generations to come.
Consistent highness does not pull you out of your humanness.