Science has long told us that eventually the sun will envelop the earth in a fiery embrace that will reduce our planet to cinders. New cosmological theories now state that we are much more likely to be crushed by the waves of overwhelming perkiness emanated by Rachael Ray long beforehand.
When did that eternally fresh-scrubbed face become affixed to every flat surface in the world? It seems I can’t make a move these days without being confronted by her eager-to-please cheerleader/deathshead rictus. She’s on TV programs (cooking, travel, and talk), books, magazines, CDs, boxes of snack crackers, airliners, smelt, surgical appliances, radial tires, abbatoirs, children’s sleepwear, roach motels, submarines, after-dinner mints, vials of methadone, harmonicas… the squinty eyes, the pert nose, the tombstone chicklet teeth are as inescapable as the “yum-o” foodgasms she emits anytime a morsel comes within three feet of her relentlessly grinning mouth.
I don’t hate Ms. Ray; I’ve never even met her, for one thing. Plus, I figure that anyone who has a dog is not completely beyond redemption. Her ubiquity, however, is working my nerves. For the love of cake, Rach, please take a long vacation. Soon.