RIP: My Sexual Future With Gail Simmons

December 11, 2008

gail simmons food & wine magazine top chef judge boobs tits breasts slays her lover evan levine

Do you remember when Season 4 of LOST ended with the infamous reveal of “Jeremy Bentham” in a casket? Immediately following that episode Nate went on an amazing bender. He was still awake and drinking the following morning when I was leaving for work. When I looked at him and said, “Nate, —– is dead,” he got this look in his eye like I’d told him everybody he ever cared about was gone. Since that night, whenever somebody has mentioned the real name of Jeremy Bentham, the same depressed look washes over Nate’s face. For months I did not understand how a person could allow the death of a television character effect him so deeply. After last night’s episode of BRAVO!’s food cooking show Top Chef, I understand how Nate felt on that fateful night. Watching the show’s contestants cook their hearts out for Gail Simmons “Food & Wine Magazine”‘s bridal shower raped and then re-raped (then Bukkaked) my dreams of ever coming close to (and by “close to” I mean “inside”) Gail Simmons.

I don’t know much about Gail Simmons, just that she’s Canadian, she graduated from McGill University (the Harvard of Canada!), and she’s got the best tits in the world. I’m not one of those super-stalkers who wants to find out where she lives and uncover her parents’ phone numbers. I simply watch her on Top Chef and try to explain to everybody in the room that I don’t mind her alien eyes, or her silly conservative outfits, or her thick arms. She’s a food nut, she’s allowed a little bit of heft — not too much, because even a barely fat woman is a fat woman in my eyes — but her extra junk doesn’t bother me.

But, like with every great love of my life, I somehow sabotaged any chance I had at a future with the queen of “Food & Wine Magazine”. What did I do? I made some arbitrary comments on my website about how awesome her boobs are, and she turned around and decided to marry some douchebag who probably has a real job and is older than me. Well, if that’s what you’re looking for in a man, Gail, you don’t deserve me. I’ve got a cock like a gazelle and I know how to work it. I can’t cook and I could never share your passion for food, but I could show you other things, like my hideous naked body, or my record collection, or…I don’t know, I’m sure I have something to offer that your husband doesn’t possess. Like integrity, or creativity, or a tiny bedroom in a condo far, far away from wherever it is you reside (I don’t even need to look up where she lives, because that would be creepy, and writing love notes to her on my blog and slobbering over her tits when I watch TV are, like, as far from creepy as can be). Aren’t opposites supposed to attract? I guess Gail Simmons just wants a boring vanilla husband, not a double chocolate Rocky Road with bacon and marshmallow ripple husband like me.

It’s just like they say, McGill girls are “dumb, skanky, white Toronto girls.”

I’m sorry Gail, I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have called you a dumb, skanky, white girl from Toronto. I didn’t mean it. I…I just get so lonely sometimes. Lonely without you. Please, babe, call me. I need to hear your down-home, peanut-butter-with-a-hint-of-smokeyness voice. I simply cannot go on knowing you’re with another man.

I had no idea this news would hit me so hard. It took all of my strength not to cry last night as I watched Gail joyously devouring lamb marinated in French and curry spices, vadouvan carrot puree and wilted kale. I wanted to go on my own two-day bender upon finishing the episode, but instead I ate a big slice of chocolate cake and played Mario Kart with Pat and Nate. I didn’t even get drunk enough to show up this morning stinking of booze, bloodied, and slurring about how the love of my life was gone forever. I just went to sleep, woke up this morning, and went about my business. Then I sat down to write a blog entry and the only thing that came to mind was “Rest In Peace Gail & Evan 2005-2008.” I couldn’t even think of an epitaph, because my mind was reeling at the thought of some fat smelly bastard not-so-delicately chewing on Gail’s nipples and farting and pulling the covers over her head because it’s some big joke. She deserves better than that. Gail’s nipples need to be caressed and licked passionately, lovingly and tenderly by someone who is deeply fond of her boobs and would never leave her boobs, not for any other boobs on television or even in movies. Someone like…me.

She…needs…me.

Until the day that you finally come to your senses, I’ll be waiting Gail.

7 comments

  1. nicci
    |

    huh.

    wow.

  2. |

    i’m not sure if i should worry about you or stalk you :-p

  3. ben
    |

    good god man.

  4. |

    That’s an extremely reserved response on Nicci’s part– I’d love to hear what she ACTUALLY said in response to this post :-P.

  5. Gary
    |

    She’s got the worst case of harlequin baby face ever, you’re better off.

  6. […] improvement over the last time I checked. Yet, I am not satisfied. Was my open letter to Gail (see: RIP My Sexual Future With Gail Simmons) not enough to catapult me to the top? That’s it. I demand a clean sweep of all Gail […]

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