The Chew, and Chewbacca

December 12, 2017.  About Me.  I and another resident here at YWCA Brooklyn whose name is Alicia (who is of course a plaintiff in a legal case against Berkshire Hathaway, JPMorganChase, Citi, Verizon, Accenture and many other corporations including the Mormon Church of Satan), were coincidentally aligned in the hallway earlier this morning and, if I am not mistaken, also yesterday (I cannot remember for sure but if not yesterday the day before) so, that is why I am posting the following headline:

Alecia Keys Wore Another Head-Turning Outfit
StyleBistro
James Allen Vintage Engagement Ring Setting…
$410 – jamesallen.com
Miley Cyrus’s Yacht Makes the Titanic Look….
WeightLossGroove
Harry’s Gift Box … harryanddavid.com
[I cannot find URL, it was an earlier version of this news:]
https://www.msn.com/en-us/tv/celebrity/fifth-woman-accuses-mario-batali-of-sexual-misconduct/ar-BBGEICL?li=BBmkt5R&ocid=spartanntp
bistro: small restaurant


TV
Fifth woman accuses Mario Batali of sexual misconduct
The Hollywood Reporter

What’s it like to eat at a restaurant with a $50,000 initiation fee?
(MSN News, December 12, 2017, www.msn.com)

YOUR GATEWAY TO ITALIAN FASHION
Alitalia
VIVI, AMA, VOLA.

(Market Watch, December 12, 2017, (Market Watch, December 12, 2017, https://www.marketwatch.com/)


NEED TO KNOW
7 savvy ways to use the office holiday party to get ahead at work

These female chefs should replace Mario Batali on ‘The Chew’
(Market Watch, December 12, 2017, https://www.marketwatch.com/)

Entertainment
Video games ‘may help prevent Alzheimer’s disease’
UPROXX
(MSN News, December 11, 2017, www.msn.com)

Politics
Washington prepared for the unexpected as Russia investigation unfolds
[left to right: Grassley, Iowa; McConnell, Kentucky; Orrin Hatch, Utah; Cornyn, Texas]
The Washington Post
[Mario, pregnant]
Lifestyle
Student fields modeling offers after her homecoming pictures…
INSIDER
(MSN News, October 31, 2017, www.msn.com)https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=mario+cuomo+eating+pizza&FORM=HDRSC2:
December 12, 2017.  About Me.  The following is a really humorous excerpt from the book I finished reading last week, a book titled The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (the theme of the book itself is not at all humorous but the author did add some humor, and not inappropriately so); two Jewish boys, brothers, 11 and seven years old, are conversing; it’s an excerpt from an excerpt I typed and posted in the preceding post (this post: Kentucky Farmer)[TO MORMON COMPUTER GREMLINS: STOP DELETING SPACE BETWEEN PARAGRAPHS! CC ALL MORMON BARRISTERS!]

Did you have any friends?

Well, Orin’s my best friend.

Orin Mawhinney?

Yeah. He’s my age. He goes to school there. He works on the farm. He gets up at four o’clock in the morning. He does chores. It’s not like us. He goes to school on the bus. It’s about forty-five minutes on the bus, and then he comes back in the evening, and he does some more chores, and he does his homework, and he goes to bed. He gets up at four o’clock the next morning. It’s hard work to be a farmer’s son.

But they’re rich, aren’t they?

They’re pretty rich.

How come you talk like that now?

Why shouldn’t I? That’s the way they talk in Kentucky. You should hear Mrs. Mawhinney. She’s from Georgia. She makes pancakes for breakfast every morning. With bacon. Mr. Mawhinney smokes his own bacon. In a smokehouse. He knows how to.

You ate bacon every morning?

Every morning. It’s delicious. And on Sundays when we got up we had pancakes and bacon and eggs. From their own chickens. The eggs—they’re almost red in the middle, they’re so fresh. You go and take ’em from the chickens and bring ’em in and you eat ’em right there.

It was really hot there, though, huh?

During the day. But we’d come in at lunchtime, and we’d have tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches. With lemonade—with lots of lemonade. We’d rest inside and then we’d go back out into the fields and do whatever we had to. Weeding. Weed all afternoon. Weed the corn. Weed the tobacco. We had a vegetable garden, me and Orin, and we’d weed that. We’d work with the hired hands, and there were some Negroes, day laborers. And there’s one Negro, Randolph, who is a tenant, and he rose from hired hand. He’s a grade-A farmer, Mr. Mawhinney says.

Can you understand when the Negros talk?

Sure.

Can you imitate one?

They say ” ‘bacca” for tobacco. They say “I ‘clare.”  I ‘clare this and I ‘clare that.  But they don’t talk much. Mostly they work. At hog killing time, Mr. Mawhinney has Clete and Old Henry who gut the hogs. They’re Negroes, they’re brothers, and they take the intestines home and eat ’em fried. Chitterlings.

(The Plot Against America, Philip Roth, pages 90-100)

Johnnie Cochran using the Chewbacca defense against Chef in the South Park episode “Chef Aid“.

A Chewbacca defense is the name in the United States given to a legal strategy in which the aim of the argument seems to be to deliberately confuse the jury rather than to factually refute the case of the other side. This term was used in an episode of the animated series South Park, “Chef Aid“, which premiered on October 7, 1998. This episode satirized attorney Johnnie Cochran‘s closing argument defending O. J. Simpson in his murder trial. The term has since been commonly used in describing legal cases, especially criminal ones. The concept of disguising a flaw in one’s argument by presenting large amounts of irrelevant information has previously been described as the modern-day equivalent of a red herring or the fallacy ignoratio elenchi (irrelevant conclusion).[1]

Within the context of the episode, the fictional Cochran begins his defense case by basing his argument on the Star Wars film series, specifically on the (incorrect) claim that the character Chewbacca lives on the planet Endor. He goes on to point out first the supposed senselessness of this decision, noting that “it does not make sense”, and then how his use of Star Wars as evidence in a harassment suit “does not make sense” either, and that therefore the case should be dismissed. His closing argument: “If Chewbacca lives on Endor, you must acquit”, lampoons Cochran’s “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit” phrase used in his defense argument for Simpson.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chewbacca_defense [emphasis added]

 

EN-DOR

[possibly, Fountain (Spring) of the Generation].

A plains city located in the territory of Issachar but assigned to Manasseh. The Canaanites there were not entirely dispossessed but came under forced labor. (Jos 17:11-13) En-dor is usually identified with Khirbet Safsafeh (Horvat Zafzafot), about 11 km (7 mi) SE of Nazareth.

At Psalm 83:9, 10, En-dor is connected with Jehovah’s victory over Sisera. While not mentioned in the battle account at Judges chapters 4 and 5, it evidently lay only a few miles S of Mount Tabor, from which Barak’s army descended. (Jg 4:6, 12) It was also in the general region of Taanach and Megiddo and the torrent valley of Kishon, where Sisera’s forces were miraculously disrupted. (Jos 17:11; Jg 5:19) So, some feature of the battle evidently extended as far as En-dor, and the psalmist, well acquainted with the historical and geographic details, could speak of En-dor as the place where many of the fleeing Canaanites were annihilated.

En-dor is best known as the place where King Saul went to consult a “mistress of spirit mediumship” shortly before Israel’s defeat at the hands of the Philistines.—1Sa 28:7; 31:1-13.
(INSIGHT on the Holy Scriptures, God’s visible organization’s Watchtower Online Library, https://wol.jw.org/en/wol/d/r1/lp-e/1200001359, posted here at my website with permission from some of the federal agents who’re pretending to be Jehovah’s Witnesses, cc all Mormon attorneys)

South Park.png
The current title card, which features the four main characters. On the roof from the left: Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman.
South Park is an American adultanimated sitcom created by Trey Parker and Matt Stone and developed by Brian Graden for the Comedy Centraltelevision network. The show revolves around four boys—Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman, and Kenny McCormick—and their bizarre adventures in and around the titular Colorado town.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Park
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Park_(disambiguation)

Randolph SevernTreyParker III (born October 19, 1969) is an American actor, animator, writer, director, producer, singer, and songwriter. He is known for co-creating South Park (1997–present) along with his creative partner Matt Stone, as well as co-writing and co-directing the Tony Award-winning musical The Book of Mormon (2011). Parker was interested in film and music as a child, and attended the University of Colorado, Boulder following high school, where he met Stone. The two collaborated on various short films, and starred in a feature-length musical, titled Cannibal! The Musical (1993).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trey_Parker [emphasis added]

 

[EXTREMELY INAPPROPRIATE, DOWNRIGHT SACRILEGIOUS!]


https://www.quora.com/What-are-the-best-quotes-from-The-Book-of-Mormon-musical

[MORMON CHURCH OF SATAN SACRIGELIOUS PROFANATION OF ALL THAT IS TRULY HOLY.  CC ALL MORMON BARRISTERS!]

[giraffe] The Grand America Hotel [Salt Lake City, Utah]

THE GRAND AMERICA HOTEL [SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH]
(Mormon Church of Satan’s Bible Gateway Reverend Fun, http://www.reverendfun.com/artchives/browse/thebestofreverendfun/)

This is a picture of the book covers of the book I am currently reading (publication year: 2000):

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=kitchen+confidential+book&FORM=HDRSC2

This is an excerpt from the book I am currently reading (I am overlooking his occasional vulgarity, the book really is humorous, and some useful cooking tips though I no l0nger cook for anyone other than myself [at least not literally I do not—I will write about “a wide mouth cooking pot”, as soon as I possibly can]):

Food is Pain

I don’t want you to think that everything up to this point was about fornication, free booze and ready access to drugs. I should recall for you the delights of Portuguese squid stew, of Wellfleet oysters on the half-shell, of New England clam chowder, of greasy, wonderful, fire-red chorizo sausages, kale soup and a night when the striped bass jumped right out of the water and onto Cape Cod’s dinner tables.

There was, in 1974, no culinary culture that I was aware of. In P-town in particular, there were not, as there are today, any star chefs—school-trained name-on-the-jacket characters whose names and utterances were tossed around by foodies, their photos swapped like baseball cards. There were no catch phrases like “Bam!” and “Let’s kick it up a notch!” bandied about on television for a credulous public like there are today. These were early times in American food. …

I pulled into town, I remember, wearing—God help me—a spanking-new light blue Pierre Cardin seersucker suit. The shoes, too, were blue. Here I was, hitchikking into a town that for all intents and purposes was a downscale, informal Portuguese fishing village and artists’ colony, a town where people dressed unpretentiously in work clothes—denims, army surplus, old khakis—and in some deranged early seventies bout of disco-inspired hubris, I chose to make my entrance in gulf-wing shouldered Robert Palmer-wear, just itching to show the local yokels how we did it in New York City.

They were pounding veal in the kitchen when I arrived; the whole crew, on every available horizontal surface, Banging on veal cutlets for scallopine with heavy steel mallets. The testosterone level was high, very high. These guys were the A-Team, and they knew it. Everybody knew it. The floor staff, the managers, even Mario seemed to walk on eggs around them, as if one of them would suddenly lunge through the bars of their cage and take a jagged bite. I alone was too stupid to see how over my head I was among these magnificent cooking machines. I’d served a few hundred meals, at a relaxed pace, in a not very busy joint, in the off-season. These guys drilled out four, five, six hundred fast-paced, high-end meals a night!

It was Friday, an hour before service, when I was introduced to Tyrone the broiler man, whom I’d be trailing. Looking back, I can’t remember Tyrone as being anything less than eight feet tall, four hundred pounds of carved obsidian, with a shaved head, a prominent silver-capped front tooth and the ubiquitous fist-sized gold hoop earring. While his true dimensions were probably considerably more modest, you get the picture: he was big, black, hugely muscled, his size 56 chef’s coat stretched across his back like a drumhead. He was a gargantuan, a black Viking, Conan the Barbarian John Wayne and the Golem all rolled into one. But unintimidated as only the ignorant can be, I started shooting my stupid mouth off right away, regaling my new chums with highly exaggerated versions of my adventures at the old Deadnaught—what bad boys we had been. I blathered on about New York, trying to portray myself as some street-smart, experienced, even slightly dangerous professional gun-for-hire of the cooking biz.

They were, to be charitable to myself, not impressed. Not that this deterred me in the slightest from yapping on and on. I ignored all the signs. All of them: the rolling eyes, the tight smiles. I plunged on, oblivious to what was happening in the kitchen right around me; the monstrous amounts of food being loaded into low-boys and reaching for mise-en-place. I missed the determined sharpening of knives, the careful arranging and folding of side towels in kitty-cornered stacks, the stockpiling of favorite pans, ice, extra pots of boiling water, backup supplies of everything. They were like Marines digging in for the siege of Khe Sanh, and I registered nothing.

I should have seen this well-practiced ritual for what it was, understood the level of performance here in Marioland, appreciated the experience, the time served together that allowed these hulking giants to dance wordlessly around each other in the cramped, heavily manned space behind the line without ever colliding or wasting a movement. They turned from cutting board to stove-top with breathtaking economy of movement, they hefted 300-pound stockpots onto ranges, tossed legs of veal around like pullets, blanched hundreds of pounds of pasta, all the while indulgently enduring without comment my endless self-aggrandizing line of witless chatter. I should have understood this femme/convict patois, this business with the women’s name, the arcane expressions, seen it for what it was: the result of years working together in a confined space under extreme pressure. I should have understood. But I didn’t.

An hour later the board was filled with more dinner orders than I’d ever seen in my life.

Ticket after ticket kept coming in, one on top of the other, waiters screaming, tables of ten, tables of six, four-tops, more and more of them coming, no ebb and flow, just a relentless, incoming, nerve-shattering gang-rush of orders. And the orders were all in Italian! I couldn’t even understand most of the dupes, or what these waiters were screaming at me. The seasoned Mario cooks had an equally impenetrable collection of code names for each dish, making it even more difficult to make sense of it all. There were cries of “Ordering!” and “Pick up!” every few seconds, and “Fire!”, more food going out, more orders coming in, the squawk of an intercom as an upstairs bartender called down for food. Flames three feet high leaped out of pans, the broiler was crammed with a slowly moving train of steaks, veal chops, fish fillets, lobsters. Pasta was blanched and shocked and transferred in huge batches into steaming colanders falling everywhere, the floor soon ankle-deep in spaghetti alla chitarra, linguine, garganelli, taglierini, fusilli. The heat was horrific. Sweat flowed into my eyes, blinding me as I spun place.

I struggled and sweated and hurried to keep up the best I could, Tyrone slinging sizzle-platters under the broiler, and me, ostensibly helping out, getting deeper and deeper into the weeds with every order. On the rare occasions when I could look up at the board, the dupes now looked like cuneiform or Sanskrit—indecipherable.

Then, grabbing a saute pan, I burned myself.

I yelped out loud, dropped the pan, an order of osso bucco milanese hitting he floor, and as a small red blister raised itself on my palm, I foolishly—oh, so foolishly—asked the beleaguered Tyrone if he had some burn cream and maybe a Band-Aid.

I was losing it.  Tyrone, finally, had to help the helper.
This was quite enough for Tyrone.  It went suddenly very quiet in the Mario kitchen, all eyes on the big broiler man and his hopelessly inept assistant. Orders, as if by some terrible and poetically just magic, stopped coming in for a long, horrible moment. Tyrone turned slowly to me, looked down through blood-shot eyes, the sweat dripping off his nose, and said, “Whatchoo want, white boy?  Burn cream? A Band-Aid?”
Then he raised his own enormous palms to me, brought them up real close so I could see them properly: the hideous constellation of water-filled blisters, angry red welts from grill marks, the old scars, the raw flesh where steam or hot fat had made the skin simply roll off.  They looked like the claws of some monstrous science-fiction crustacean, knobby and calloused under the wounds old and new. I watched, transfixed, as Tyrone—his eyes never leaving mine—reached slowly under the broiler and, with one naked hand, picked up  a glowing-hot sizzle-platter, moved it over to the cutting board and set it down in front of me.

He never flinched.

The other cooks cheered, hooted and roared at my utter humiliation. Orders began to come in again and everyone went back to work, giggling occasionally. But I knew. I was not going to be the Dreadnaught’s broiler man this year—that was for damn sure. (They ended up kicking me back down to prep, one step above dishwasher on the food chain.) I had been shown up for the loudmouthed, useless little punk that I was. I was, I learned, later, a mal carne, meaning “and meat” in Italian, referred to as “Mel” for weeks after that. I had been identities as a pretender, and an obnoxious one at that.

I slunk home that night in my blue Pierre Cardin suit as if it was sackcloth and ashes. I had not yet found a summer rental, so I was sleeping over the walk-in in the back room at Spiritus Pizza. My torment, my disgrace was complete.

After a few days of sulking and self-pity, I slowly, and with growing determination, began to formulate a plan, a way to get back at my tormentors. I would go to school, at the Culinary Institute of America—they were the best in the country and certainly none of these P-town guys had been there. I would apprentice in France. I would endure anything: evil drunk chefs, crackpot owners, low pay, terrible working conditions; I would let sadistic, bucket-headed French sous-chefs work me like a Sherpa…but I would be back. I would do whatever was necessary to become as good as, or better than, this Mario crew. I would have hands like Tyrone’s and I would break loudmouth punks like myself over the wheel like they’d broken me.

I’d show them.

Inside the CIA

Burning with a desire for vengeance and vindication, I applied myself to gaining entry to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York.  …

CIA is located in the buildings and grounds of a former Jesuit monastery on a Hudson River clifftop, a short ride from Poughkeepsie.  In my buttoned-up chef’s coat, check pants, neckerchief and standard issue leatherette knife roll-up, I arrived determined but full of attitude.

The CIA of 1975 was very different from the four year professional institution it is today. Back then, the desired end product seemed to be future employees of a Hilton or Restaurant Associates corporate dining facility.  A lot of time was spent on food destined for the steam table. Sauces were thickened with roux.  Escoffier’s heavy, heavy, breaded, soubised, glaced and oversauced dinosaur dishes were the ideal.  Everything, it was implied, must come with appropriate starch, protein, vegetable.  Nouvelle cuisine was practically unheard of.  Reductions?  No way.  Infusion?  Uh-uh. We’re talking two years of cauliflower in Mornay sauce, saddle of veal Orloff, lobster thermidor, institutional favorites like chicken Hawaiian, grilled ham steak with pineapple ring and old-style lumbering classics like beef Wellington. The chef/instructors were largely, it seemed, burnouts from the industry: bleary-eyed Swiss, Austrian and French ex-cronies, all ginblossoms and spite—along with some motivated veterans of major hotel chains, for whom food was all about cost per units.

(Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain, pages 27-44)

THIS IS AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM ME:
No matter how many people think otherwise, Jehovah’s Witnesses really is God’s visible organization.
The wrath of Jehovah God really is upon the Mormon Church of Satan, no matter how many people think otherwise.
The stock market really is going to crash, worldwide, no matter how many people think otherwise.
No matter how many people think otherwise, Caroline Kennedy will be elected President in the year 2020; Jim Turner of Texas will be elected Vice President; Robert Kennedy Jr. will be nominated and confirmed U.S. Attorney General; Robert Mueller will be nominated and confirmed Director of the FBI.
No power on earth has the power to prevent this prophetic message that I write from becoming reality, not even these four people themselves.  I write under inspiration from and with authority from, God, the true God, Jehovah.  cc all Mormon barristers


THIS IS ANOTHER IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM ME:
Mayor Warren Wilhelm aka Bill de Blasio is the clean-up man, if the Mormon Church of Satan/CIA succeed in their planned nuclear bomb attack on the Hudson River.  His administration is already prepared to hold tribunals and immediately execute some of the “troublemakers” (30,000 bananas; nationwide: 30,000 guillotines, to be continued)

Partial List of Scapegoats, if the Mormon Church of Satan/CIA succeed in their nuclear bomb attack on the Hudson River:

Former President Barack “Hussein” Obama
Former Advisor to the President, Valerie “June” Jarrett
Former Homeland Security Director “Jeh” Johnson
Newark Mayor Ras Baraka
Minnesota Congressman FBI agent Keith “Ellison”
New York Congressman FBI agent Hakim Jeffries
Former leader of the CIA’s Black Panthers: FBI agent “Malik Zulu Shabazz”
Former Public Relations Spokesman for Mormon Church, FBI agent “Ahmad” Corbitt (now assigned to the Dominican Republic)

The purpose of this website is to expose the Mormon Church of Satan and all enemies of Jesus Christ the Way the Truth the Life, the Prince of Peace. This website is also the beginning of a presidential campaign to elect Caroline Kennedy President of the United States. I prayed to Jehovah God to please, by means of His son Christ Jesus, please, arrange national events and world events in such a manner such that Caroline Kennedy is elected President of the United States.  I know Jehovah God hears my prayer and will answer my prayer because that particular prayer of mine is one of my deepest desires and Jehovah God has promised me that he will satisfy all of my deepest desires.  All of the information posted at this website is interconnected; directly connected to the Mormon Church of Satan’s illegal sting operation surrounding Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide, and me. The illegal sting operation that encompasses every human being on earth, and has resulted in the LEGAL CASE, unlike any other, ever. The LEGAL CASE, headed to The Hague, Netherlands. cc all Mormon attorneys

As the Storm Approaches,
Maintain Your Focus on Jesus!
(Matthew 14:22-34; Hebrews 12:2)
(Concluding talk, Jehovah’s Witnesses Convention 2015, worldwide)