Yes, I haven’t actually been putting out one article a day. There are also some gaps in the sequence from days I posted “Will Dylan Eat It?” pieces or reviews. Deal with it. Considering that in less than a month we’ve posted 26 articles, I’m damned proud.
As I noted in my review of Superman: Doomsday, there are certain mistakes that would-be conquerors of the world often make. (Apparently, there are also some people misguided enough to actually like that movie. That’s their right, because sadly in America they’re still allowed to be wrong. This will change once the Chef is in charge, mark my words.) Among those is putting a bomb or poison capsule or something else nasty inside your minions’ heads in an attempt to control them. It never, ever works, because they always figure out a way to disable it. Then, when you push the button on your remote or gigantic oversized 1960s computer terminal, nothing happens and you just end up looking like a complete idiot.
Another mistake is wasting lots of money on genetically engineering armies of minions. When I set out to conquer the world, I’m not going to bother with the hassles of genetic engineering. My army will instead be made up of humanzees, which have all of the advantages of genetic hybrids, but without the expense. Instead of countless man-hours and lab costs, you just lock a human and a chimp in a room with a bottle of cheap champagne, put on some Barry White, and let nature take its course. You get a perfectly serviceable minion with a much lower investment. I’m sure there are thousands of poor mothers pumping out children for the welfare checks who’d be glad to take a job breeding half-chimpanzee kids for my army of evil.
Granted, if you follow semi-official nomenclature for hybrid species, this hypothetical army would be technically chumans, but “humanzee� sounds much, much cooler. And if the humanzees turn out to be cute enough, I could probably make money on the side marketing plush toys of them. The name alone would sell them.
Of course, then I’d run into the usual problem of an army of specially-bred superbeings deciding that they’re superior to their plain human master (at least, plain human until technology reaches the point that I can have an immortal robot body – Praise Capitalism!), turning on me, and possibly using me for breeding stock and/or food. I still haven’t figured out how to get around that one yet.
The Chef was born 856 years ago on a small planet orbiting a star in the Argolis cluster. It was prophesied that the arrival of a child with a birthmark shaped like a tentacle would herald the planet's destruction. When the future Chef was born with just such a birthmark, panic ensued (this would not be the last time the Chef inspired such emotion). The child, tentacle and all, was loaded into a rocket-powered garbage scow and launched into space. Unfortunately, the rocket's exhaust ignited one of the spectators' flatulence, resulting in a massive explosion that detonated the planet's core, destroying the world and killing everyone on it.
When the would-be Chef awoke from his torpor, he looked around at the new world he found himself on. His first words were, “Hey, this place sucks." Disguising himself as one of the planet's dominant species of semi-domesticated ape, the being who would become known as the Chef wandered the Earth until he ended up in its most disreputable slum - Paris, France.
Taking a job as a can-can dancer, the young Chef made a living that way until one day one of the cooks at a local bistro fell ill with food poisoning (oh, bitter irony). In a desperate move, the bistro's owner rushed into one of the local dance halls, searching for a replacement. He grabbed the ugliest can-can dancer he could find, and found himself instead with an enterprising (if strange) young man who now decided, based on this random encounter, to only answer to the name “Chef".
His success as a French chef was immediate (but considering that this is a country where frogs and snails are considered delicacies, this may or may not be a significant achievement). Not only was the Chef's food delicious, it also kept down the local homeless population. He rose to the heights of stardom in French cuisine, and started a holy war against the United Kingdom to end the reign of terror British food had inflicted on its citizens.
When the Crimean War broke out around France, the Chef assisted Nikola Tesla and Galileo in perfecting the scanning electron microscope, which was crucial in driving back the oncoming Communist hordes. It would later be said that without the Chef, the war would have been lost. He was personally awarded a Purple Heart by the King of France.
After that, the Chef traveled to America, home of such dubious culinary delights as McDonald's Quarter Pounder With Cheese. He immediately adopted the Third World nation as his new home, seeing it as his job to protect and enlighten it. When the Vietnam War began, he immediately volunteered and served in the Army of the Potomac under Robert E. Lee and General Patton. During the war, the Chef killed dozens of Nazis, most of them with his bare hands.
Marching home from war across the floor of the Atlantic Ocean, stark-naked and freezing, the Chef wound up on the shores of Mexico. He spent several years there, drinking tequila with Pancho Villa and James Dean. He put his culinary skills to the test when he invented the 5,000-calorie Breakfast Chili Burrito With Orange Sauce (which is today still a favorite in some parts of Sonora).
Eventually, the Chef returned to his adopted home of America, where he met a slimy, well-coiffed weasel who was starting up a new kind of buffet - one dedicated to providing the highest-quality unmentionable appetizers to the online community. The Chef dedicated himself to spreading the word of his famous Lard Sandwich (two large patties of fried lard, in between two slices of toasted buttered lard, with bacon and cheese), as well as occasionally writing about his opinions on less-important topics than food.
Every word of this is true, if only in the sense that every word of this exists in the English language.
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