If you live in California, or any other grape-growing region, wake up early tomorrow morning. Crack your bedroom window open just as the sun gives its final push up over the horizon and breaks the narrow band of remaining darkness. Put your ear to the outside, and listen closely.
Can you hear it (me of tomorrow asks)? It’s faint, but it’s there. Yes; that’s it. That almost imperceptible hum you hear is not a swarm of killer bees or your neighbor’s early morning hijinks with her battery-operated boyfriend. That din you hear is the sound of millions of tiny new grapes howling against the tragedy which may very well be their future, for they too have heard the dismal news:
Guy Fieri, of Food Network‘s douche-friendly “Diner’s, Drive-Ins, and Dives” and owner of lambasted New York City “restaurant” American Kitchen and Bar, has decided to start making wine.
To sell. For profit. In exchange for cash money. To us, the trusting and incomprehensibly stupid public.
High culture just came home from its final doctor’s appointment and started making its end-of-life plans. Can you imagine what will happen to a generation of children who watch their parents drink wine out of a bottle designed to look like a bacon-wrapped piece of bacon?
Guy Fieri of course is the spiky haired loudmouth who brought the world culinary delights such as “Donkey Sauce,” and who has hopefully hired a better marketing team for the naming of his wines. It is anticipated that the wines will provide suitable parings for infamous offerings like his “Hot Wieners Rhode Island Style,” and “Pig Patties.” Fieri once commented “I wanna be the ambassador to Chimichanga Flavor Town,” so that alone gives you a brief idea of the things this man should not be doing:
- cooking
- wine making
- naming things
- anything, ever, on television
Needs a hero
Guy Fieri is like that dude who sat behind you in tenth grade auto-shop with the orange fake-bake tan and a gold I.D. bracelet, the one who drove his mother’s 1985 Chrysler Le Baron convertible with the top down in February. You knew he would grow up to be a bloated, loud-mouthed, gouty asshole, except it’s worse than you imagined because he got a T.V. show.
No word on when we can expect the first bottles to hit store shelves, but one can safely presume the reds to taste like ball sweat and peroxide, with subtle undertones of American cheese and dumpster grease.
What this needs is a bold, full-bodied red with a smooth Lipitor finish.
Guy Fieri’s “brand” is fascinating and successful — he jokingly mispronounces the word “vegetable” in efforts to make us laugh at his trashiness, and promotes food worse than the standard offering of any fast-food chain. He celebrates and encourages us to party right along, all the way to the cardiac ward. And of course food should be celebrated! JUST NOT HIS.
If you get “reach-around jerk-off” excited over a 3-pound cheeseburger or deep fried pizza-wrapped Mars bar, there is probably something vital missing from your life (besides vitamins). In any case, the last thing you should be adding to your heapin’ helpin’ of “Slamma Jamma Parmigiana” is a box of anything alcoholic made by a guy who created “Slamma Jamma Parmigiana.”
Would YOU drink a Fieri wine? Got any suggestions to Fieri for pairings or prospective wine names?
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About Jeni Marinucci
