This week, in my inbox, I got a promotional email from Sur La Table. Now, usually, I really like Sur La Table’s little emails. This one, however, came with the following subject: “Gift Ideas for Him.”
So, right off the bat, I’m thinking this email is about to detail some kind of totally awesome new penis-operated spatula, maybe in some sort of strap-on style — or, at least it had better be, because otherwise? I’m gonna be kinda peeved if Sur La Table’s telling me “ooh, sorry — these are for boys; you go play over there with the baking goods.”
Sadly, as it turns out, the world will have to wait for the Cookin’ Cock EX, because this email featured a manly outdoor smoker for “gourmet chefs, butchers and sportsmen.”
Now… let’s just look at that last bit again.
Sportsmen. Now, I know I ain’t no fancy constitutional scholar, but I’m still pretty sure getting a gun permit doesn’t involve slapping your meat and two veg down on the counter to prove you’re a man.
Butchers. I can’t say I count any butchers among my circle of friends (although that would actually be kind of awesome, particularly if they’re willing to teach me their insider secrets. Butchers? Feel free to email me), but as far as I know, there’s still no medical exam involved before they allow you to carve up a side of beef.
Gourmet chefs. Oh, yeah. That… kinda chaps my ass. Gourmet chefs = manly. Regular everyday chefs = not manly? And in that same vein, dude who smokes food in overpriced gadget thing on the weekends = gourmet, so person (i.e. the partnered female of said dude) who puts the food on the table during the week = not gourmet?
Now, I like to think that each and every one of us — male and female alike — has our own inner Rosie Perez: a loud ballsy voice (Brooklyn accent optional), when maybe we ourselves don’t have one. So, right about now, mine is saying something like OH, NUH-UH, SUR LA TABLE WITH YOUR FAKEY-ASS FRENCH NAME! YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT SOME JACKASS WHO COOKS ONCE A WEEK IN HIS OVERPRICED MID-LIFE CRISIS, MY-DICK-IS-BIGGER-THAN-YOURS-AND-I-MAKE-MORE-MONEY-TOO SMOKER MAKES GOURMET FOOD; BETTER FOOD THAN HIS WIFE/GIRLFRIEND/SISTER/MOTHER — WHO DRAGS HER ASS HOME FROM WORK EVERY DAY JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE AND STILL GETS EVERYONE FED AND INTO BED — BECAUSE I WILL WALK DOWN TO SPRING STREET MYSELF AND SNATCH YOU BALD, YOU HEAR ME?
Okay, so maybe there’s no actual way to cause physical harm to a store but come on: it is almost 2007. Can we all maybe agree to stop assigning gender roles to appliances? Because next time, I’m totally going to have an aneurysm and end up all ten kinds of crazy like Sharon Stone or something.