Cowabunga, my fellow Flavortownians.
This is the 311th time I have hollered at ya’ll while wearing the official mayoral sombrero, seated on this horse saddle that rests upon our most popular eight-top, where so many decisions have been made that have shaped the rock-star history of Flavortown. I've once again come here to discuss with you some matter or batter or frosting that affects Flavortown or my belly's desire.
In all of the totally radical decisions I have made as mayor, I have always tried to do what is most badass for Flavortown. The truth is, we've been unable to escape the harsh and un-gnarly period of Flavor-gate, after Pete Wells's of the New York Times‘ wrote a satirical review slamming my dreamy and creamy flagship restaurant and it was taken too seriously. The repercussions have intensified on the reg ever since.
When I first took the oath of office, I made a sacred commitment, with my right hand on our menu, to dip, flip, fry, freeze, stuff, grill, grip, sip, spit, split, chop, blend, douse, dredge, and puree the food of this great town, and to provide full throttle-flavor for all.
Despite this, I have resolved to do my duty by preserving all the jams I could, by making every possible effort to cram all the flavors that I can into every morsel of food, no matter how exorbitant or superfluous or fingers-and-toes-lickin’-good.
In the past few days while laying duct-taped to the hood of my ‘67 Chevy Camaro SS as it is U-Hauled between the towns I visit for Triple D (Diners, Drive-ins and Dives), it has become as clear as a old-fashioned donut glaze that I no longer have a strong enough support from my taste-loving base in the Food Network to justify continuing as the Mayor of Flavortown.
As long as I had the support of that base—like the flour in my famous “Butter Milk Hoe Pancakes”—I felt strongly that it was necessary to see the gastronomical process through to its hot, sticky, sexy conclusion. To do otherwise would be unfaithful to the spirit of that deliberately wet, gooey process and a dangerously destabilizing precedent for the flavorful, whiz, bang, wow future of Flavortown.
But because the base has vanished as fast as my “No-Can-Beato-These-Taquitos” at a Superbowl Party stuffed to the gills with a bunch of hungry dudes, I now realize that my life's purpose has been cut short by what amounts to an angry mob carrying pitchforks upon which no butter-basted grilled vegetables are pierced.
I must depart the townhall of flavor, as much as it brings delicious, salty tears to my eyes that I let drip onto my famous “Salty Mexican Rhubarb Chocolate Chunk Brownies,” as well as the cheddar bacon icing I’ve coated them in to elevate the flave to slamma’ jamma’ in Alabama levels.
Sorry, let me compose myself.
I would have much rather stayed the course to conclude my meaty, saucy, pig dippy journey, in spite of the humiliation it would have entailed. My family, especially my boys Hunter and Ryder, the two best sons a father could have, urged me to soldier on. But the interest of Flavortown must always come before my own reservations, which makes me a better man than that friggin’ jerkwad Anthony Bored-lame.
I cannot go on. Meanies have continually labeled me a “Sunday Best Juggalo” or “the 6th member of Smash Mouth,” and these slanders have resulted in a loss of support from much of the populace. Apparently, my haters think I’m “off the hook” but in a bad way, something I didn’t even know was possible. Additionally, my advisors told me a majority of viewers perceive me as a “human Las Vegas bowling alley”—a description that I thought was a real-deal compliment but have since been told was meant to insult me, which really kung-fued my self-esteem.
I have never quit anything in my life, no matter how often I saw the Golden Arches of Heaven beaming and beckoning me up into Flavordise while I cry out, “This is so money!” To resign as the Mayor of Flavortown, a position I planned to rule until the torch could be passed to a worthy, tubular successor, is a major bummer.
But Flavortown needs a full-time Mayor, particularly as we face dilemmas that are beyond my control, exclusively due to the public shaming me out of what seems like unfounded and baseless cruelty.
As far as I’m concerned, the biggest sin I’ve committed was simply being myself and doing the things I was destined to do: cook, educate the masses, and spread my love of food. That’s where my entire off-the-chain (in a good way) focus has been for my entire life, but it’s being taken away from me and there is nothing I can do.
Therefore, I shall resign the Mayorship effective at noon tomorrow. Steve from Smash Mouth will be sworn in as Mayor at that hour on this table.
When I first took the oath of office, I made a sacred commitment, with my right hand on our menu, to dip, flip, fry, freeze, stuff, grill, grip, sip, spit, split, chop, blend, douse, dredge, and puree the food of this great town, and to provide full throttle-flavor for all, righteously presented on a trashcan lid.
I have done my best to uphold that vow. It is with a heavy heart that I must step aside due to external pressures that stem from hatred towards my unconventional appearance, verbal gymnastics, and out-there demeanor, not as a result of my actions, which my number one advocate Shane Torres has outlined: inclusive hiring at my restaurants, paying more than minimum wage and providing health benefits, operating two non-profits that focus on helping children cook, working with Special Olympics athletes, officiating a gay wedding, and, most recently, feeding tens of thousands of people who were affected by North California wildfires last fall.
I believe it is well within my rights for me to proudly state that I think I am a good person of high integrity who has been treated unfairly, and that as a result of my leadership, Flavortown and the world has become a better, safer, doper, cooler, radder, funner, tastier, chiller, and infinitely more bitchin’ place.
Serving as your Mayor, I hope you felt the very lights-out delicious, bomb-dot-com, gangster connection I've tried to forge with each and every Flavortownian. I will leave you with this dynamite prayer:
May God’s hot tub of flavor be with you in all the days ahead, and may it always put the shama lama in the ding dong. Amen.
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