Posts Tagged ‘parody’

What I Would Say When Packing My Knives Upon Being Eliminated Off “Top Chef”

Thursday, May 15th, 2008

The two lowest-scoring contestants, DIRK and SPIKE, are called to the Judges’ Table where PADMA LAKSHMI, TOM COLICCHIO, and GAIL SIMMONS will eliminate one of them from the competition. Dirk looks contrite. Spike sighs heavily and can’t believe he’s in the bottom two.

PADMA

Spike, Dirk. Your two dishes were the judges’ least favorite. Unfortunately, one of you will be going home.

She looks to Tom to summarize the situation.

TOM

That’s right. You know, both of you really fell well short of the mark tonight. And, in this competition, you can’t afford to miss a step. Spike, your shrimp obelisk tasted terrific and really showed your maturity in terms of deveining. However, the rest of the judges and I just have to tell you that the auditory quality of your food, the inexplicable sort of high-pitched grinding sound it emanates, somehow, dish after dish, is very off-putting.

Spike just gives him an insolent stare.

TOM

And, Dirk, we appreciate the ambitiousness of your dish but I’m not sure why you would give us chicken blenzine and not acid-crust it. That just…It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. It made Gail cry and Ted can’t be with us now because he snapped while trying to get his mind wrapped around that dish. So, unfortunately, one of you has to leave the competition.

Gail tears up again.

Tom looks at Padma to let her issue the final verdict.

The music swells, Padma gives it a few beats so the camera can get one more look at the contestants, their sweating brows.

Finally…

PADMA

Dirk, please pack your knives and go.

Dirk drops his head in sad acknowledgement. The only thing that gives him any kind of solace is that, in telling him to leave, Padma finally looked at him for the first time in this competition. Spike blows out a sigh of relief and gives Dirk a manly half-handshake/hug type of thing.

DIRK

(To the judges)

Thank you for the opportunity. It was great.

Dirk returns to that loading dock-looking area where the remaining 11 CONTESTANTS wait to hear what happened. Dirk does a cool “peace out” type of gesture.

DIRK

It was me. I’m out.

Spike pats him on the back. The others give the obligatory appearance of being shocked and hug Dirk one-after-the-other like they always do.

Dirk talks to the camera in the interview room.

DIRK

Well, my time at Top Chef is over. But you think that means I’m done as a chef? Am I just going to give up the thing I love most? Ha!

Dirk gathers up his belongings alone in the kitchen.

DIRK (VO)

Yes. Yes, it does mean I will just give up. I don’t know why I said, “Ha!” a few seconds ago because I will definitely give up cooking. I’ve lost so much confidence that I can’t even imagine successfully feeding myself at any level. Yes, I’ve wanted to be a chef all my life and love the kitchen so and it’s the one thing that connects me to my dead mother, but even the slightest hint of failure tends to spiritually obliterate me to the point I’ll give up even what’s most important to me at the drop of a hat.

If, for example, I had invented the time machine, when the first person I would have come over to test it out sat in it and said, “Hmm. This seat is kind of scratchy,” I would have immediately yanked the guy out of the time machine and said, “You know what? Never mind. This isn’t a good idea,” and tossed my invention into the woods somewhere. A curious raccoon would no doubt have probably walked across the dashboard such that it would have started the wretched machine (you really think I would be smart enough to have included any kind of safety lock or something?). The machine would have taken the creature back to the 1830’s and it would have found its way through the open window of the infant Rodolphe Lindt’s bedroom, chewed him to death, and I would have been kicked off this show two episodes ago for not only having “deep-seated toast point issues,” as Tom termed it, but also for causing the non-invention of conching. And, without chocolate conching, there wouldn’t even be any candy bars for me to drown my desperation in.

Anyway, I felt my imminent failure since the first Quick Fire Challenge when the guest judge, Anthony Bourdain, broke into knee-slapping hysterics after tasting my Chilean sea bass curry, but then looked at my sour visage and said, “Oh. You weren’t kidding.”

All the flavor profiles I’ve developed over my years and years and years of cooking might as well be the very opposite of flavor profiles. It’s done. You won’t be hearing a lot more from Dirk Voetberg.

He looks at the last knife he’s about to pack.

DIRK (VO)

Maybe I’ll keep this one at the ready.

He lifts his chef jacket in the back and slides his knife in his belt in the back of his pants.

DIRK (VO)

I just realized someone else probably would have invented conching if Lindt hadn’t. My example was useless.

He walks towards the glass door emblazoned with the “Top Chef” logo and pushes it open as he makes his final exit.

DIRK (VO)

I am nothing.

The Judges\' Table

The Top Chef judges in this picture

Remember This Here? The First Thanksgiving Prayer!

Wednesday, November 21st, 2007

In that autumn of 1621, the Pilgrims and Wampanoag Indians gathered near Plymouth to have what is now the most famous of Thanksgiving feasts.

Up until now, researchers (and academics!) have been unable to find any record of the prayer the Puritans said before this meal. However, TheDirk.com staff found it at a library recently.

Here is the first Thanksgiving Day grace:

prayerb.jpg

 

For more Puritan humor, click this!

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Thursday, October 11th, 2007

Today, we wanted to honor a giant of humor prose and who better fits that description than Woody Allen? James Thurber. Below, we reprint his classic New Yorker piece, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”:

“I’m going to kill myself,” the Commander muttered to himself as he stood on the wobbly chair in his sultry motel room in the middle of this endless lonely Arizona desert. “Jesus. I’m so sad. I’ll just put this noose around my neck and fall into the sweet sleep of forever…”

“Walter! What in Heaven’s name are you doing now?” barked Mrs. Mitty. Walter Mitty woke out of his daydream and looked back at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. She had gotten back into the car after finishing her hair appointment at the New Milford salon.

“Why do you have that gun to your head?” she asked.

“I’m going to kill myself,” Walter replied.