In the wee hours of last night, when darkness had cloaked all in its thick embrace, only a flickering light disturbed the still. This light reflected onto the faces of the sleepless restive souls who make up the CBS late night demographic. If one had erred and looked not at the slack jawed zombie viewer, his face bathed in light, but at the source of the light itself, one would have seen television host Craig Ferguson and a grey-haired woman teetering on heels force-feeding America bacon, butter, and fat. Her name is Paula Deen. She is known to you. She has been there before. And if, once looking, you could not tear fast enough your eyes from the screen but remained transfixed yet not bewitched, this thought could not help but grow in your mind: Is Paula Deen an Evil Sex Fiend Succubus?
And why would so dramatic and misanthropic a thought crystallize there, in that place that by right should be filled with erotic dreams featuring Tina Brown selling Limeade and William H. Macy as an alien? Well...
· With her bumbling and tricked-out hicked-up Southern accent, Paula Deen simply reinforces the country bumpkin stereotype. By so doing, she does a disservice to all Southerners and all lovers of subtly, haters of stereotypes.
· Paula Deen has a husband — a jolly fat man named Michael Groover — and yet, on show after television show, she practically cuckolds the man. No ageist I, I'm all for the olds flirting and being dirty. Heck, sometimes I watch it on the internet, in thirty second clips so I don't have to pay a membership pass. But, hath not Michael Groover eyes? hath not Michael Groover hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons? If you prick Michael Groover, does he not bleed? If you make fart jokes about Michael Groover, does he not cry in the green room? If you practically get on all fours and play fingercuffs with Jay Leno and Craig Ferguson, does not Michael Groover lose his last shred of dignity and honor? No beard yet can hide his shame.
· Most importantly — for what are we to the Deens or the Deens to us? — Paula Deen is killing America. Her food — three fucking Monte Cristos, lady? it's like you hit the heart attack jackpot — is really really really bad for the human body. It's a bad thing to put in there. Just plain shouldn't go in. It should stay out of the human body, like, for instance, snow globes and guitar strings. Those things are fine when not ingested but ingest them and problems will occur. The same goes for the food of Ms. Deen. Sure, her defenders hem and her guardians haw, but it's just entertainment, y'all! Well, it is that. No one can deny Deen makes good television. [But then again, so does Bumfights.] But it is also meant as a template. In fact, Paula Deen's entire career rests on her ability to transmit from her potty mouth to her viewers blocked up arteries, her unhealthy unwholesome and utterly deleterious recipes.
So as G-d said unto Moses in Exodus [33:20], look not at his image inverted, Paula Deen, the obscene bacon-whisperer, a Delilah, a cholesterol pimp:. “You cannot see Her face nor eat Her sandwich; for no man can see Her and live.”
Video: Paula Deen on Craig Ferguson