In Praise of Eliot Spitzer

You’ve got to admire Eliot Spitzer.

Yes, you read that right. This man is my new idol, joining the Holy Trinity of Gavin McLeod and Nathan Fillion as someone I want to model my life after (not that either of those men are anything like Spitzer). For those of you not keeping up with the current rumor mill, let’s just say that Mr. Spitzer has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle with the public due to some recent actions involving hookers and public funds. There is, of course, the usual hue and cry and outrage that’ll be forgotten in two weeks when the next celebrity scandal comes along.

The truth is, you’ve got to admire Eliot’s audacity. The man truly has some balls (the metaphorical kind, not the physical kind he used on the prostitutes – although he would have to have those, considering he was a regular customer and all), and ginormous brass ones at that.

There’s an old adage that goes, “If you only have a hammer, everything must look like a nail.” Beyond its implications about what tools do to one’s eyesight, the adage speaks to us about what we do and how we do it. If you can only do one thing, do it better than anyone else. Eliot Spitzer’s hammer is corruption, and he excels at it.

You have to admire his dedication to the art of public office. His commitment to excellence meant that he not only stole public funds, but was so utterly without morals or conscience that he went out and blew those public funds on whores. That’s a work ethic not seen since the Nixon administration, when the President secretly taped himself to see if he was going to say anything incriminating.

I can definitely get behind that (and I’m not even Frank Miller). Patronizing whores is kind of the epitome of moral decadence. Not only was he cheating on his wife, but Spitzer was paying a woman for sex. Not only that, but he was doing it on the taxpayers’ dime. Eliot Spitzer is The Man.

As I mentioned before, whatever you do in this life, you do it to the full extent of your abilities. Eliot Spitzer has taken that adage to a whole other level. He has proven himself to be a king among public officials, and a man among men. I salute his dedication to excellence.

About The Chef

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.

The Chef.
Your host, hero to millions, the Chef.
Oblivious, the dumpster containing the infant Chef sped on. It crashed on a small blue world due to a freakish loophole in the laws of nature that virtually guarantees any object shot randomly into space will always land on Earth. The garbage scow remained buried in the icy wastes of the frozen north until the Chef awoke in 1901. Unfortunately, a passing Norwegian sailor accidentally drove a boat through his head, causing him to go back to sleep for another 23 years.

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.