Bee-yotch: Ryan Scott Stings Amuse-Biatch in Fresno Bee

As you are no doubt all too aware, possums, the last seven days have been an unceasing dirge, an expression of mourning for our inconsistent, self-avowed “metrosexual,” and Little Mozart of the Fryolator, Mr. Ryan Scott.

Encased, as he was, in the aspic of his own smarm, he was a sitting target, and we will miss him. Oh how we’ll miss him!

It appears, however, that he won’t miss us.

According to The Fresno Bee:

[Ryan] Scott was more curt when asked about amuse-biatch.blogspot.com, a blog that skewers all “Top Chef” contestants.

“You’ve got to have something better to do with your time than that,” Scott says.

Oh, Ryan, possum, we’re hurt, even—dare we say it—hoit.

How odd, and yet how apt, that it should have been your pretty-boy predecessor in loquacious smarm, last season’s Brian Malarkey, who leveled the same charges only last year. And we say unto you, as we said unto him, “We do have better things to do (and we do them); it’s just that we enjoy doing this.” As you yourself might have said, we don’t just blog with our hands; we blog with our heartlessness.

Mind you, we haven’t been as heartless as we could. We received some very interesting correspondence from people very close to you that we refrained from publishing. We have also resisted spinning out your narrative arc as a tale about the revenge of chicken, for it was chicken (piccata) that first brought you national disgrace, and chicken (thighs on a bed of bread) that got you kicked off the show. Did you see a single “When the Chicken Piccata Comes Home to Roost” headline from us? No.

Moments after Padma pykkagged you, you said, with a little poached pear of a sob in your throat, “What this show brought me was cooking, yes, and what it does is it humbles you and teaches you that, you know, it’s, like, wow, I'm not the shit, so, thank you.” But did we do a post about your Pauline conversion titled, “Turd Discovers He’s Not the Shit”? No. And yet this is how you treat us.

But just as our sorrow threatened to overwhelm us, we listened once again to your final words on the show: “This personally changed my life, so it’s gonna change the way I cook. It’s the way I look at an ingredient, but it's not gonna change me, Ryan Scott, as a person.”

Does that mean you’ll still be the vain, smarmy, inconsistent, prevaricating self-avowed “metrosexual” Ryan Scott we know and love?

In that case, possums, we will stop weeping into our gnocchi-soft pillow and face the new day, for though this may be our last Ryan Scott post for a very long time (as you no doubt will appreciate, possums), lo he is risen and will smarm again.

Casey Thompson Kicks Off Her Beaver Boots, Finds Jesús

Possums, why, oh why, is Dallas such a magnet for mystery? Indeed, to our way of thinking, Dallas claims the top two spots on the list of Greatest American Mysteries: 1) Who shot J.R.? and 2) Who shot JFK?

And to that list we must add number 3, What, we say, what are Beaver Boots?

This was a mystery raised by none other than Miss Casey Thompson herself on her MySpace page, which we were wont to visit in order to muse on the photographic evidence of her various experiments with peroxide, her failures at staying within the lines when applying lipstick, and her consorting with individuals very much given to making hand gestures that we--cultural naïfs that we are--could never quite pin down as having been misappropriated from rap videos on MTV, expressing allegiance to Satan, or simply indicating unwavering love for a Texas university.

It was on her MySpace page that Miss Thompson designated herself "Beaver BOOTS," and it was to you, possums, that we turned for enlightenment (particular thanks to the Amuse-Biatch reader who sent us the trucker dictionary; most enlightening). We also mused on Miss Thompson's desire to meet Jesus "hopefully one day," theorizing that "judging by the photos on her MySpace page and by the city she lives in, it looks like she might already know somebody named Jesús."

Imagine our surprise, then, when yesterday we went to look at the picture where she puffs out her poitrine in a raspberry-colored top (as Miss XaXa put it, remembering the onion-dicing challenge, "She may not be good with a knife, but her surgeon certainly is") and found that the little minx has tauntingly replaced her wallpaper with one of cherries, and that Miss Thompson's "Beaver BOOTS" designation is now gone. Instead, Miss Thompson says, "I do know Jesus! Jesus is my homeboy..!"

Miss XaXa's first reaction was to ask, "People still use 'homeboy'?"

We had to agree that, at least in California, "cholo" would be a better term, but "Jesus Is My Cholo" doesn't sound as mellifluously ready for bumper stickers on SUVs in the parking lot of Joel Osteen's megachurch as "Jesus Is My Homeboy."

Well-done, Casey, possum, on finding Jesus the same week that Michael Vick did; although, we must say, yours looks like a distinctly more personal Jesús. Now we shall never know what Beaver Boots are, but no doubt Jesus prefers it that way.