Lack of space, language barrier or one-time offer?
Plus, I see two different sandwiches on this sign, so there goes your credibility. Just egregious branding all around.
If there’s any justice in the world and Food Network actually has some meaty balls, it would hand this woman a fat contract and a cooking show without hesitation—and then not change a damn thing about it (except maybe give the show a snazzy opening sequence or something).
Not because this woman, Felicia O’Dell, aka “Auntie Fee,” is a rare culinary talent or drips with sensuality. Au contraire.
Not because hiring her would more than make up for the anti-abolitionist Paula Deen fiasco.
And not because this is the network’s big chance to finally reach that elusive epicurean gangsta demographic.
It’s because I’ve never seen a more effortlessly entertaining, no-nonsense, nonfictional cooking show in my life. Just so much to like about these videos. Check it:
To be sure, there are a handful of sanitation and overall nourishment issues that may need to be addressed, but fuck it. That’s part of the show’s charm. This is South Central LA Gastronomy 101; so backdafuckup with your first-world hygienics and uppity foodie standards.
What’s more, I’d say the dubious nutritive value and fat content of Fee’s dishes are more than rivaled by Paula Deen’s coronary concoctions (and the majority of what Food Network airs, for that matter).
Trust me, even though Fee’s dishes may opt for lard over truffle butter, your arteries won’t know the difference.
Okay, it’s official: there is no God.
Because if there were, She would smite the holy fuck out of anyone who crossed this ungodly threshold.
Welcome to the Bible Belt, folks. Jesus loves you, but He loves you even more if you’re really, really ridiculously good-looking.
To me, this place seems like the very bastion of humility and virtue—what with its modest signage, streetlamp beacon of hope and strip mall locale. I mean, I’m sure this is exactly what Jesus meant by:
“Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them,” (Matthew 6:1).
I do wonder, however, whether they have a separate casting couch for prepubescent boys?
Not for the product it’s selling per se, but for the sheer effort and originality put into its creation.
This is one of those ads.
Created by a Swedish art director by the name of Castor, this spiel for his ’93 Volvo is just outstanding.
Thinking maybe I should moonlight as a freelance graffiti proofreader or something, because this is just embarrassing.
Kind of reminds me of this flawed gem from a slide at the park (although I do find the solecism below far less egregious, due to the likely age and reading level of its transgressor).
Or even this beaut of a timepiece that I picked up one squally evening in Wheatland, WY. Gotta love the irony of a misspelled witticism.
Only in San Francisco do the homeless sleep on Eames chairs.
He may be a glory-holing huffer who’s lost all hope and dignity, but at least he hasn’t lost his aesthetic sensibility.
Or maybe there’s something larger at play here—like this dude is some pioneer (or at the very least, an early adopter) of a nascent vagrant fashion movement, à la Mugatu:
Yes, that must be it.