Chef Gordi

I guiltily admit my pleasure in TV shows on Hulu, 

especially cooking shows.

Chef Gordon Ramsey's potty mouth, temper and energy 

with a side of British bite and sarcasm 

are entertaining when I feel the need to unwind. 

I was tickled pink when I came across the following ode to him

on none other than my fav, the nerdiest of nerdy, NPR.

To be, or not to be, you [bleep]ing donkey: that is the question: 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

The utter [bleep] of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a [bleep]ing dog's dinner, 

And by opposing end it? To burn: to scald; 

No more; and by a simmer to say we end 

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 

That a simple [bleep]ing garnish is heir to, 'tis a consomme 

Devoutly to be wish'd. To braise; to sear; 

To sear: perchance to make a simple [bleep]ing salad: ay, there's the rub; 

For in that salad what hair may be found 

When you have bent over the plate with your [bleep]ing sweaty face, 

Must give us pause: there's the respect 

That makes a [bleep]ing disaster of a piece of salmon; 

For who would bear the pink beef (IT'S NOT COOKED!), 

The returned pasta, the proud man's broken sauce, 

The pangs of food poisoning, the appetizer's delay, 

The insolence of [spits out rest of sentence into trashcan]

That the angry cameraman into the freezer takes, 

When he himself might identify soy sauce 

With a blindfold on? Why are you standing over the soup, 

To grunt and sweat and stick your [bleep]ing filthy fingers in it, 

But that the promise of being a meaningless figurehead in my fabulous Las Vegas restaurant, 

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, is [bleep-bleep] 

And makes us rather eat a plate of sheep [bleep] 

Than feed anyone this overcooked risotto? 

Thus an idiot does make pea soup that looks like dog vomit; 

And has the native hue of seaweed 

I'm sicklied o'er every time I look at this [bleep]ing scallop, 

And enterprises of great [bleep] and [bleep] 

With this [bleep]ing [bleep] their currants turn to [bleep], 

And lose the [bleep]ing [bleep].—GET OUT! 

Madam! Take off your jacket 

And leave Hamlet's kitchen.

via {npr}