CHOPPED, Everything needs a little REDNECK in it.

My wife likes to cook and she is good at it. Most times.

It’s those experiments that can be troublesome. Like the night we played Chopped. Have you seen this show? Chefs are required to make a gourmet dish out of weird ingredients in a mystery box like; pickled pig’s feet, yogurt, monkey eye lids and cream of wheat.

Anyway, we played the game like this: The three kids and I each picked one ingredient and put it in an empty cardboard box I’d received some Hornady ammo in. Drema comes out of the bedroom and finds, frozen shrimp (my son) bananas (my 3 year old girl), chilly-cheese Fritos (my 6 year old girl) and beef stick (yours truly of course) all in the box.

30 minutes later, after trying to work with my son shoving a video camera in her face while he acted like Ted Allen, she put a meal before us. (My life has been threatened if I post the video – even an edited version.) That’s when we all played the up-tight food critics like are on TV and it’s where I came up with my great idea. Well, right after my son told Drema he was afraid the meal might be toxic.

You see I think all these competition cooking shows need a redneck, hillbilly judge to add some real, well, reality. (Can you believe I actually watch these shows?) See, this would give a voice to the average viewer who is watching this stuff while setting in the recliner, in their underwear, drinking sweet tea and eating Oreos and Cheeze Whiz out of the can.

They need somebody to look at the plates and just tell the truth about what kind of over-sophisticated, crap is before them. And, someone to say things like, “This tastes like nose drainage and has the consistency of worm bedding.” This guy could be me!

I could wear my flannel shirt, jeans and Muck boots and spit tobacco juice in an empty Coors can I’d just cut the top off of with my Spyderco, while comparing the food to the jambalaya mistake I once ate at deer camp.

I could also, in a very sarcastic manner, tell those persnickety judges to shut up when they get their panties all in a wad because someone failed to include enough seasoning in their entree. “Hey dude, that’s why we have salt and pepper shakers on the table in West Virginia!”

This is a perfect example of why you should not blog late at night when you can’t sleep. I think I’ll stop before I start writing about politics, religion and how bad I hate Glocks.

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About gunwriter

Born and raised in the West Virginia hills, Richard literally grew up in the woods. He has chased coon hounds until daylight, waited out whitetails perched high in an oak, canoed the New River and hunted from the Montana Mountains to the Green Hills of Africa. During service in the Army and later as a municipal police officer and Special Agent with the railroad police, Richard obtained numerous certifications in small arms instruction. He has trained military personnel, law enforcement officers and civilians in the application of firearms for defensive, competitive and recreational use. Richard won the West Virginia Governor’s Twenty Award for law enforcement, the West Virginia National Guard State Pistol Competition and earned his Distinguished Medal with pistol. Badge turned in, Richard is now a contributing editor for several magazines. He was the compiling author of the book, Rifle Bullets for the Hunter and conceptualized and contributed to Selecting and Ordering a Custom Hunting Rifle. Richard also contributed a chapter to the John Velke book, The True Story of the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency. Richard has patents on a riflescope reticle and a revolutionary bullet testing media. A hillbilly at heart, Richard lives on Shadowland - his shooting range in West Virginia - with the most understanding wife in the world, their three kids and a very protective ridgeback hound.
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2 Responses to CHOPPED, Everything needs a little REDNECK in it.

  1. Tom Blackwell says:

    Richard,
    I send the link for this post to my wife and she laughed so hard she had tears running down her cheeks. You made her day.

  2. Pingback: Eating Squirrel | EMPTY CASES

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