American Pie

I hear that little Jimmy Oliver has been making waves in the USA. Schools in California have banned him from their kitchens for fear of being shamed into feeding their children his “pukka” recipes. Someone should tell them that celebrity chefs like Jimmy are basically entertainers. You can watch them sprinkle and toss over a hot stove without the slightest intention of attempting to emulate their culinary feats. Jimmy is a sprinkler and a tosser par excellence, but British fans who want to taste his food just go to his restaurant. 

The nature of Jimmy’s true calling should have been obvious when he appeared on the Letterman show and beguiled the audience with his cheeky cockney banter. His most memorable quip was that vanilla ice-cream contains an ingredient found in a beaver’s anal gland. Full marks to Jimmy for doing his homework and knowing that “beaver” is a rude word in America. There are no beavers in England, of course, only otters and ferrets, which are not particularly rude unless you put them down a man’s trousers. 

I’m sure Jimmy means well in promoting healthy eating across the USA, but the premise of his transatlantic odyssey seems flawed to me. The problem with food in America is not its quality but its quantity. On my first visit to the country, I was surprised to discover that the restaurants served portions large enough for my appetite. While this was excellent news for me and other 500-pound gorillas, watching humans gorge themselves on this abundance made me feel queasy. When I noticed the overfed diners trying to squeeze their wobbly behinds into their capacious motor vehicles, my queasiness turned to revulsion. The USA, it seemed, was the Land of the Fat and the Home of the Bulbous. 

Not everyone in America is overweight, of course. President Obama cuts a particularly pantherine figure as he prowls across the prairies, announcing his intention to run for re-election. I can’t help wondering whether the lardish folk of middle America resent being governed by such a svelte figure. Maybe Barry could win them over by promising to give them the secret of his slim waistline, which I suspect has something to do with sleeping with a black woman. His new campaign slogan might be “Vote Obama if you want to see your genitals without the aid of a mirror”. 

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me emphasize that I will be strictly neutral in next year’s presidential election. A gorilla does not meddle in human politics or hand-out endorsements willy-nilly. I have no idea who the Republican candidate will be, but I’m sure he’ll measure up to Barry in his vital-statistics – or her vital-statistics, for that matter. Let’s not forget Sarah Palin, still wowing her supporters and keeping in shape with her dumbbell exercises. If she wins the nomination, she’d be a much stronger candidate if she divorced her husband and persuaded Hilldog to be her running mate. The thought of two ladies cohabiting in the White House might be just the kind of gimmick that voters find irresistible.

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