What the fuck are we talking about here? This looks like one of the two shits Nippy took during Problem Child 2. And people eat this. Happily.
I’d actually considered writing this, or something like this, probably 2 weeks ago, which I figured was enough time to avoid chasing the top story and possibly a time to reflect on what her whole fiasco means to me. Because “trust me,” it means a whole lot.
I’ve probably had a big burn-on of hatred for Paula Deen since 2006. It might be sooner; there was a spell of time when I moved to Philly, and I didn’t have cable. That made it much easier to not see that face. That face is the anti-Helen of Troy, as it launched precisely zero ships, and it actually incurred what looks like decades of foundation bombs from Mama Maybelline. I’m not saying she’s ugly…I’m just saying I hate that face.
I see that face, and I want to hit something. I’ve punched a hole in the brick wall separating my basement from my neighbors just looking at this fucking thing.
Maybe it started there, but let’s start here where it ends, and loop back around at the end. Unless you have a life or have completely abandoned all modern sources of mass media for the glowing warmth of a bittorrent halcyon dream, you’ve seen that Paula Deen got herself into a little bit of trouble over the past month or so, with a deposition being released that lays plain that Deen had used that dreaded N-word somewhere in the past of that 60-something year-old life of hers, that she might possibly think some of the window dressings of old plantation life were cute, and that her brother apparently loves to look at porn and tell really racist jokes while actively managing a business.
As a result of this, Mrs. Deen has seen her country-fried empire sog up, wilt away all around her, and rip through the paper towel on which it was drying. Dropped by Wal-Mart, Target, QVC, the Food Network, and numerous others, the proverbial cash cow was pretty much taken to slaughter at the altar of political correctness. She even lost her publishing deal which, at the time of their decision to drop her, was bringing them massive pre-sales on Amazon.com for her upcoming cookbook. I’ve never heard of a company that doesn’t want to make money, but apparently they exist!
This does not go in a body. This comes out of a body. And then it goes into a cookbook.
Personally, I love all of this, but not for the reasons one might think. I have exactly zero stake in words that she might have used at one point or another in her life. Unless she’s an active, practicing racist, I take mistakes like that, using racist slurs in their most hateful and direct meanings, as scars that a soul must endure on its way to some measure of enlightenment.
And to be fair, I think Paula Deen might have actually found that enlightenment in her life at some point. I just don’t see her getting giddy to go out on a Saturday night, stick her corn-fritter ass out the window of an Escalade and scream racist epithets from a bullhorn-dispensed PA system rigged inside the vehicle. She’s rich as shit; she probably just wants to spend loads of cash, enjoy her life and look like a fucking goof.
In a quick aside, I feel like she shouldn’t get too butthurt about losing that Food Network deal. Sure, that might have been the church from where all the doctrines of Deenism were espoused, but the Food Network is chock full of monstrous, clique-y cunts who probably “tolerated” Deen much more than they liked her. Maybe they liked the money, but I’m sure Bobby Flay was too busy going around the country, trying to punk out local chefs while having yet another show prepared for the Grillin’ & Chillin’ charisma vortex. And with Guy Fieri & Anne Burrell in the Paula Deen Grooming Program, complete with shock-white hair and ridiculous speech patterns, they had to be plotting her demise for some time. So fuck them, Paula. Even if they ask you to go back, have some pride and tell them to suck a fat, black cock. Bunch of assholes (except for Sunny Anderson, who is a legit sweetheart and is criminally underused at that network)…
The other stuff? Well, she’ll be missing the money, but fuck her.
“Whoa, but didn’t you just have her back?”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. But to make myself much clearer, I definitely do dislike her and think she should have lost all of her sponsorships years ago. You know, when she had diabetes for three years and still endorsed giant fucking hams while making a show about cream-covered donut burgers deep-fried in bacon grease, duck fat and covered in the skin of a flayed child.
It was when that story broke that I truly decided to start stoking a hate-furnace for Mrs. Deen. The timeline, as I remember it, is reflected below (with a modest addition of artistic license):
“Hey y’all, gueeeees whuuut? I gots the diabetus.”
“Oh no, what are we going to do? You should probably modify your cooking and become an advocate for sensible eating and improving one’s life choices?”
“Ni–er, who the fuck is gonna watch that fuckin’ buuulsheet? No, we stay the course! Whiskey-soaked, breaded, double-fried Boston Creme fudge-cakes all season!”
—Two or Three Years Later—
“Hey y’all, I’m a monstrously annoying soul criminal who needs to make some changes in her life, so now we’re gonna start makin’ some healthier choooiiceees. And one of my gay sons is going to have a spin-off show called ‘Not My Momma’s Meals,” where he’ll take my old bullshit recipes and make them taste like crap, but not kill anyone. What’s the word for when something like this happens?”
“Shameless shut the fuck up, you walkin’ Little Black Sambo doll! And you know, I think I’m going to start taking on sponsorships for diabetic testing supplies. This, obviously, will show my passion for personal reform.”
“Yeah, reformed into an even more depraved capitalistic tyrant…”
“Hey Bubba, would you come over and take this one down to the post and give him a few lashes? He’s uppity as Hell!”
It was for the events contained above, the hiding of the disease so obviously caused by her life choices and super-rich recipes so that she could milk that market dry, then the turnaround and opening of new, directly-oppositional lines of finance through the abandonment of her wayward past and the parlay of that into off-shoot success for her children that deserve no such distinction.
They say you have to look out for yourself in this world, and that’s true. But you don’t have to actively fuck people over, lie directly to their faces and maintain this grotesque public image of a sweet southern belle when all you want to do is wrangle in the dumbest of the viewing public and pluck directly from their workaday wallets. This is why the cash cow should’ve just been silently put to pasture then, for lying, for betraying a trust, no matter how silly that trust was.
Fucking hell, my mom loved Paula Deen. She still might; we haven’t talked about it, because I get so angry when we bring her up that my mom goes off on these rants about how the only way I’m going to finally break into the happy life that I want is to free myself of all this rage. Moms: sometimes, maybe even often wrong…but when they’re right, they’re irrefutable.
This brings us back to Deen’s current predicament. This, I actually feel, is excessive. It’s almost insane how fired up the media world got about her telling the truth, when they were so silent when she lied her mouth dry. Perhaps this is the business world’s mea culpa for not taking the action they should have when she was still the hot topic in celebrity chef culture. I don’t think that at all, but let’s at least extend it an invitation to be within the realm of possibility.
What it really is, though, is another example of our culture: constantly under-corrective, then over-corrective. We don’t monitor kids with strange families, mental disorders, access to firearms and loner tendencies, and they go shoot up a school of little kids. We can’t do anything there, so when another kid plays an online video game and then talks some ridiculous, killy-killy smack to his friends on Facebook, he gets thrown in a Texas prison for months with a $500,000 bond, staring down a terroristic threats charge that could carry a 10-year-prison sentence…for saying something.
That’s what we do, though. It might be because it’s the only thing we think we can do. We give the world a chance, and the world fucks us over. We do nothing, and give the world another chance. And the world fucks us over again! So we blow up the world. If anything, the Age of Information might have refined two things to the point that they’ve become strong human character flaws: the capacity to forgive, and the subsequent knee-jerk overreaction. It’s so easy to follow the whole story that we can feel only too justified to bring the hammer down on people who aren’t paying for the new crime, but three times over for the first crime.
Closing up here, Paula Deen’s probably going to be back, one way or another. She will never be what she was again, if Don Imus is the precedent for how these things go, but she might yet be redeemed. I really hope not, but I’m completely sure my motivation for that hope is for a completely different list of offenses than the standard issue.
Until then, someone take away Paula’s shoelaces. She might not deserve a cooking world empire, but she deserves better than what she’s received, and as a result, I’m putting her on Suicide Watch. I can’t believe this, but Paula, I wish you the best. You lying, nepotistic caricature of a human.
Sleep well, dear princess. Tomorrow, the sun shall shine.