President Me (27 page)

Here's how you know it's worthless. No dietitian has ever said, “You need more zucchini.” No vitamin commercial ever claims, “It has more vitamin B than zucchini.” What the fuck is a zucchini anyway? I think it's kind of coasting on a cool name. It's a combination of “Zeus” and “bikini.” It's just a green skin that holds flavorless moisture. It has all the taste and nutritional value of a water balloon.

TOMATOES:
I enjoy tomatoes like any decent Italian. I like a Roma tomato and I especially like the beefsteak tomato. That sounds awesome. Beef? Sounds good. Steak? Yes, please. Tomato? Definitely.

But the cherry tomato is just a tough skin full of puss. The fact that I'm supposed to eat the entire vegetable is the worst part. This would be like a lobster that's all shell. It's like eating a paintball. You bite into it and it explodes in your mouth in a very homoerotic way. Plus the name is misleading. I like cherries and I like tomatoes but this is the worst of both.

I know I called it a vegetable and right now there are several know-it-alls who are saying, “Technically a tomato is a fruit.” Well, it's a fruit and you're an asshole. I'm the fucking president and if I say it's a vegetable it's a vegetable.

And while I'm on tomatoes, let me say this about tomato soup. Perhaps Campbell's has ruined it for me, but this just tastes like ketchup that has been sweetened and heated. Tomato soup is the reggae of soups.

Here's why. People always qualify reggae when I say it's a shitty genre. “Well, what about when you're sitting on the beach drinking a Mojito and getting blown by the Doublemint Twins? Reggae is great then.” Of course. But the sound of your mother being sodomized would be enjoyable while you're relaxing on a beach drinking a rum-based cocktail out of a pineapple.

It's the same with tomato soup. Later today, with a friend or coworker, bring up how much tomato soup sucks and set a countdown for how long it takes them to get into the location. It always ends up with, “Yeah, but on a rainy day, when you're home from school and your mom would make you a grilled cheese . . .” That's how you know tomato soup sucks. They don't do that with minestrone or beef and barley. It's never, “What if we were at a raging bachelor party and a topless chick comes out with some beef and barley soup?” The quality of a soup should not depend on the situation.

Maybe we should commandeer the bread bowls from clam chowder and give them to tomato soup. Clam chowder is the one soup that doesn't need the bread bowl. It stands alone. It's not like you get the crock of clam chowder and toss it on the floor saying, “What the hell is this crap? Why is this not being contained by sourdough?!” Chowder is atop the soup pyramid. It's almost a stew, which is the highest compliment you can give a soup.

CELERY AND CARROTS:
These are just something they put on the side of buffalo wings to make fat guys feel okay about eating them. You tell me if there's a bigger contrast than that. Wings are nothing but grease, fat, and bones dipped in ranch or blue (pardon me,
bleu
) cheese dressing. There's nothing worse you could put in your body, but it always comes with a couple of celery and carrot sticks. Has anyone ever had a plate of wings delivered and gone for the celery first? Never. In. The. History. Of. Man.

PLANTAINS:
These divide our nation. They're tearing us apart. We've got to get rid of them. You can take all of humanity and split it into two categories—people who love plantains and people who hate them. If you go out for Cuban food with a friend, you either have to eat them for him or fend him off from taking yours. I'm convinced this rift has been the cause of innumerable divorces.

Plus they're Cuban. This is essentially a communist banana. Not in
my
America.

VEGETARIANS:
Last year I was at a shitty house in Covina shooting my Spike TV pilot, which is really the only reason anyone should be in Covina. We were breaking for lunch and someone had run to the Quiznos to grab food for the crew. He got the usual suspects—roast beef and turkey club. But among them was the box of veggie sandwiches. A whole box of vegetarian subs.

A veggie sub is somehow worse than just vegetables thrown on the floor. It's some wilted lettuce and a bell pepper in stale bread with some mayonnaise slathered on it. But here's the point—even though way less than 2 percent of the crew were vegetarians, 33 percent of the sandwiches were. And of course what happens? The turkey and the roast beef get devoured immediately and we're left with a dozen veggie subs.

If you're vegetarian you should have to bring your own shit to work. We're going on a sandwich run; we're getting meat and bread. That's what a sandwich is: meat SANDWICHED in between two pieces of bread. We could possibly consider a grilled cheese in the mix, if you've been good. But we're not going to get an extra box of crap just because your skinny vegan ass hates food and your stepdad, I assume, molested you and then enjoyed a nice T-bone steak, thus your aversion.

It got worse a couple days later on the same set when I found out the lunch was vegetarian chili. I asked where the regular chili was for the regular people. There was none. Just the five-gallon vat of vegetarian slop.

This was an attack. I don't eat nearly enough chili. I'm putting it up there with fish and chips, Bugles, and rice pudding in the Mount Rushmore of foods I love but never eat. (Note to self: Invent Bugles stuffed with chili.) I average a teaspoon of chili a year. So to have that intoxicating smell and mouthwatering visual put in front of me only to be robbed of the meaty climax was a tragedy.

There's no such thing as vegetarian chili. Chili needs parts of something that formerly had hooves on it. Vegetarian chili is like smokeless cigarettes, nonalcoholic beer, and decaf. You've removed the best part, the essence of the thing. I want my shit to have shit in it. If I get a hooker I want her to come with a vagina.

Of course I couldn't let this travesty go unnoted. As the saying goes, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” I ranted and raved at the crew until one guy from the carpentry crew (yes, a carpenter, one of my own) admitted he was a vegetarian. He only added to my rage by saying there was another vegetarian guy on the staff but he wasn't there that day. I got the assistant director to tally the crew. There were thirty-plus crew members and among them one vegetarian.

And I don't even consider this traitor a vegetarian. I don't think vegetarians even exist. There are omnivores like me, and narcissists who need you to know they don't eat meat. They're not vegetarians because they love cows and pigs, it's because they love attention.

I ran into one of these “vegetarians” at Carney's in L.A. This is a hot-dog-and-burger joint shaped like a train car. Once a month I take my son there. He calls it “the hot-dog train,” which I tell him not to do because it sounds pretty gay. They do a good hot dog and a pretty good burger. That's what they do—burgers and dogs. Of course, when I took the kids there, I got stuck in line behind the guy who decided he needed to order the veggie burger. The chick behind the counter was confused. It was probably the first veggie burger that had ever been ordered there. This gummed up the whole works. That place is essentially a hot-dog assembly line. What the fuck are you doing there if you want a veggie burger? Get that shit from Whole Foods and cook it at home in a shroud of shame. But hey, you got written about in a book. I noticed you. Mission accomplished.

In my administration we will start tagging these vegetarians and tracking them. That way when they show up to the jobsite, they get handed a green beanie. Then, if they get out of line and start making lunch demands, they're going to be put on an island where eventually they would start eating meat—each other's flesh!

These are the same hypochondriacs who blather about toxins. They have to work it into every conversation. You can say to them, “I need a ride to the airport,” and they'll follow it with, “Well, I'm on day four of a cleanse to get the toxins out of my body.” I didn't ask you to take me to Arby's. This is a topic that drives Dr. Drew nuts. We'd always take calls from these assholes on
Loveline
who would say, “You know your body is basically a sponge that absorbs toxins, right? We live in a toxic environment. Do you ever wake up in the morning and feel tired? That's your body storing toxins. Ever get tired around three or four in the afternoon and can't focus? Toxins.” Drew would always challenge them. He'd say, “Tell me what the molecule is. What is the chemical formula for this toxin that you're speaking of?” Of course they wouldn't have an answer. What they would have is a stupid metaphor they don't actually understand like, “You know how your car has a radiator. It's filled with gunk and residue and you need to clean it out. It's just like that with your body.” Thank you, Sanjay Gupta. What the fuck are you talking about? You got put on academic probation at junior college. You're just spouting a bunch of bullshit you heard from another stoner at a drum circle.

Before I move on from vegetables to other areas covered by the USDA, I ought to name a Secretary of Agriculture. I'm going with Terry Schiavo. Not just because she was the world's most famous vegetable but because she's no longer with us and I'm committed to reducing the size of government.

MEAT AND CHEESE

There was a lot of hand-wringing and paranoia a year or two ago when they found some horsemeat being sold in Europe as beef. At the time I thought, “Who cares?” Why do we prioritize some animals over others as far as what is fit for us to consume? It's all just protein. No matter what it is, you're going to shit it out in fifteen hours anyway.

What's the different between a cow and a horse? They've both got four legs, hooves, and eat grass. If you showed someone from a different planet a picture of a cow and a Clydesdale and asked, “Which would you rather eat?” I bet they'd go with the Clydesdale. It looks like it has more lean meat and it comes with its own beer.

Was there some agreement reached between man and horse back in the Stone Age? The horses were like, “We'll let you ride us, but only if you promise not to eat us. Agree?” And we came back with, “Yes, but occasionally some guy in Florida is going to want to fuck you.” “Okay, deal.”

On to cheese. I think we need to have a bleu ribbon panel convened to get us all on the same cheese page. We need clarity. I'll tell you the triggering incident for this.

I was waiting for my buddy Kevin at a diner. We were going to work on a script together. I beat him there by a little bit, so I ordered an omelet with peppers, turkey sausage, and Jack cheese. It came out and upon first bite I knew something was off. It was pepper jack. Pepper jack is not a real cheese. It's the synthesized, pepper-infused knockoff of real Jack cheese. I was blindsided by this, because you expect the rubbery synthesized prepackaged slice of American or Swiss, which is why I specifically ordered Jack with my omelet. I don't want that fake shit. That crap doesn't come from a cow, it comes from canola oil and a laboratory.

This stuff is always way too salty, ruins the taste, and doesn't act like real cheese. It doesn't melt properly. For example, you can't put real cheese into hot dogs or stuffed-crust pizza. Only fake cheese can be injected into those pieces of retard chow.

After Kevin arrived and I spouted at him for ten minutes, I went up to the counter to get my cheese situation sorted out. There were six people in line and, I shit you not, while I was behind them someone ordered a pepper jack pizza. As far as my Justice Department is concerned, this is a felony offense. Eventually I got to the front and talked to the chick who had initially taken my order. I told her what had happened and asked politely if I could have it remade with regular Jack cheese. She said this fake pepper jack was the only Jack cheese they carry. How about that information up front, bitch? When I order Jack cheese you should probably warn me that the only variety you have is the one that was made in a lab and tastes like a Mexican wiped his ass with it.

Dejected, I told her, “You should probably tell people that.” And she had the gall to say, “I'm pretty sure I told you.”

This incident points to a bigger issue beyond cheese. Whatever happened to “I'm sorry, sir, we'll fix that right away, our apologies.” This is the Nike “It's Your World” generation at work. She even followed it up when I contradicted her, with, “Well, I heard it somewhere.” I then had to warn the other people in line that I was going to be a dick and possibly reach across the counter and beat her with a skillet. I was furious. Don't push this back on me, lady. This is your horrible decision; don't pretend that I didn't ask correctly.

Don't get me wrong; there is a time and a place for American cheese. Just not an omelet. The grilled cheese is the one place where I like American cheese more than cheddar or Jack. American cheese melted on some toasted buttery white bread is great. But American cheese melted in a quesadilla is an abortion. You must go with cheddar or Jack (NOT pepper jack) in the quesadilla. Why? Both are just slices of carbs made from flour encasing some melted cheese. Why so great a chasm?