Get Off My Triscuits, Bitch. or She Stoups to Conquer

There's a game we play: Who Do We Hate. I've played some version of this game since college. Back then I called it "Celebrity Bus Crash." You picked x number of celebrities you wanted to see die in...you guessed it...a celebrity bus crash.

I went grocery shopping this morning, in the midst of some other errands. I'm walkin' through the salty snacky aisle and I'll be damned...there wasn't a SINGLE box of triscuits without the leering perky smilex face of Rachel Friggin' Ray. I went home sans Triscuits. And I know that it's just not here. Brian, my boyfriend, loooooves his Triscuits. But I have essentially forbade him to buy boxes with her insipid mug and dreadful recipes on them. I would be unable to sleep in his apartment knowing that in the kitchen, in the cabinet above the refrigerator, her vacant smile was behind the doors. He has managed to get lucky and scored several boxes of RR-Free snacks. But something tells me it will get harder as time and her Bataan perk march goes on.

I'm so sick of her perky giggly hair flippin shtick. Bitch, you're pushin 40. Stop for chrissakes. I'll admit that for a while I was into this idea of quick meals...I love to cook, but sometimes there's just not really time. I get this. It's a good niche, really. But gawd! Everything has some sort of quiky little nickname, acronym, or neologism.

I stumbled across this "album" on the Onion AV Club's list of least essential albums of 2006. It definitely should never have seen the light of day--if you look closely at the pic, RR's "Love that Joker" mug has been photoshopped in. So I reckon this is some piece of crap that they were trying to move and found her a suitable tie-in. More horribly, she has a CHRISTMAS album. Well, perhaps nothing is more horrible than the fact that she's on tv about 5 hours a day.

Several weeks ago the National Enquirer ran a couple of articles about how her husband has this dark kinky secret: he allegedly (Kathy Griffin fans, take note) pays this butch, lip-pierced woman to spit on him and then photograph it. They referred to this as some sort of dark fetish that was perhaps resulting from psychological issues, past trauma, rejection etc etc. Frankly, being spit on is more appealing than waking up next to her.

So I'll just throw this out there...who do YOU hate?