Amuse-Biatch Goes a Little Bit Grubby, a Little Bit Street

Possums, usually we don’t like to blow our own trumpet (we’ll skip the requisite dirty pause just this once), but today we’ll make an exception, and you’ll see why.

In the normal course of events, New York magazine restaurant critic Adam Platt and Grub Street’s editor, Josh Ozersky, run every week’s Top Chef episode through an IM grinder. However, as Mr. Platt is in the Restaurant Critic Protection Program for a week, just to see how he might like it (should Jeffrey Chodorow really lose it someday), Josh kindly asked us to step into those big, red-sequined stilettos and add our own blade to the grinder. The results, full of gristle and snark, can be seen here.

We thank Josh for the invite, and will look for just the right Padma Lakshmi photograph to express our appreciation.

Amuse-Biatch Heterosexual Monday: Undomesticated Passion for a Domestic Goddess

Amuse-Biatch Relapse

Possums, we’re afraid that a solid week of sweetness and light was simply too much for us. The strain of having to say so many nice things so often and in such a short period of time simply took us over the edge. (And to those of you who wrote to complain that we weren’t saying anything nice at all, that it was all thinly veiled sarcasm and left-handed compliments, we say, with troubled mien, “O ye of little faith!”)

So yesterday morning we made a run for it. We broke out of the Rainbow Springs Gayhab facility through the window and high-tailed it to the nearest IHOP and ordered ourselves the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n’ Fruity, the absolute gayest thing we could find. Then we watched the Oscars, and that was truly our downfall.

And the moment when Melissa Etheridge accepted the Oscar for Best Original Song from Queen Latifah and Queen Lottafat (sorry, John Travolta), with Ellen DeGeneres still onstage—well, so much concentrated gayness simply overwhelmed our neurons, and the careful conditioning of Rainbow Springs went out the window, too. We began playing “Spot the Lesbian” (Jodie, possum, those shoulders!) Our every extremity began to tingle when Jennifer Hudson outsang and outracked Beyoncé (heck, she could outrack Betty “Spice Rack” Fraser). We got verklempft when Marty won for Best Director.

That’s it, possums. We’re never going back to Rainbow Springs. If they want to take us back, it will take more than butterfly nets. They’ll have to take us out feet first, and in a gold lamé “straight jacket.” Sorry, Teacup Kitten and company. And hey, hey, possums, the Amuse-Biatch is back.