Bieber, Bagans & Fieri – annoying celebrities and public personalities who we’ve ‘voted off the island’.
Voted Off The Island | Articles – Smartasses Magazine
We’re not sure how this Frosted Mini Wheat with sunglasses and overdone jewelry rose to anything close to the amount of fame that he has, but frankly, we’re too embarrassed that he hails from Smartasses Magazine’s hometown of Columbus, Ohio to care. If we Columbusites are going to be looked upon as ass-clowns, let us at least be cast as such for something valid… like being the worst behaved football fans in America- not for frosting our hair, conspicuously omitting the letter ‘G’ from the end of every word, and coming up with ‘recipes’ that Mrs. Davidson’s fourth grade class could have concocted.
Who really wants this putz cooking your food anyway? It’s bad enough that we have to put up with his incessant “Dude-At-A-Party-Who-Brought-The-Weed” ad-nauseum chuckling, but did you happen to catch him on the Super Bowl XLV Pre-game, grabbing Nabisco’s with neither tongs nor gloves as if his chubby little life depended on it? For anyone who’s ever been a restaurant manager, we don’t need to tell you that this sort of behavior alone, not to mention all of that nasty health-code-violating silver on his hands, would have been enough to send anybody back to culinary boot camp. I think it’s pretty logical to expect better from a TV Chef.
Let us also consider the notion that our Minute to Win It game show host, chooses… yes, cognizantly chooses to call himself “Guido”. This is not exactly a term of endearment. In fact, the Urban Dictionary lists the word as such: A sad pathetic excuse for a male; not necessarily of Italian descent, but most likely; usually native to the New York/New Jersey Tri-State area. Ring any bells, Mister sad, pathetic grandson of Giuseppe Fieri?
Honestly, it’s bad enough that we have to suffer through any of his I’m-cool-’cause-I-wear-thumb-rings food commercials, as if he’s really driving around in a big red cracker truck ready to make your tailgate so much better with buttery saltines and Grade D beef. But seriously, are we really supposed to believe that throwing crap on a Ritz cracker deserves the term ‘recipe’, let alone a ‘rockin’ recipe? The term ‘slider’ is a little in question as well. I think most people eat Ritz crackers to prevent things from sliding back up their esophagus after a tailgate party.
But regardless of semantics, let’s break down this so-called recipe:
Two crackers; one quarter of one slice of simulated cheese type food; some Steak-Umm leavin’s; a single jalapeno; and a bunch of other garbage that allows Guy to throw in words like ‘balsamic’ and ‘julianne’… just so it can sound like an actual recipe.
I’ve seen monkeys do more with a banana.
Let’s also take into consideration the game show Minute To Win It. Whatever happened to the days of game-show hosts having a little class? Somewhere along the line, some hipster TV exec decided that the days of the smiling pretty-boy emcee’s were over, and we needed to have cutting edge hosts with ink, piercings, a shaved head and an attitude. While that may not necessarily be a bad thing… come on people, Guy Fieri? Seriously? Howie Mandel is the kicker and Guy Fieri is the punter? Really?
Nonetheless, somehow this Who Wants To Be a Millionaire knockoff also became a videogame and of course Guy is on the cover, pointing like he’s Eddie Van Halen, as if to wickedly encourage you to be as gnarly and pimped out as he is. Think the game sounds like fun? Don’t hold your breath. Read a few of the reviews, courtesy of Amazon. Apparently it’s just as bad as Fieri’s outdated Wolfman Jack style.
In your mind, Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Ashton Kutcher wish they were you. The Hiltons, The Kardashians, hell, even The Beatles all wish they could party with you.
As you so placidly pose for every camera shot, we understand the trauma that comes with the territory of being so damn good lookin’. We empathize with you, for all the hours spent in your childhood suburban basement, doing curls and bench presses with your JCPenney dumbbell set, so strategically placed under the watchful eye of Leif Garrett’s knowing smirk on that Tiger Beat magazine cover taped to your cold, hard cinder block wall… uttering to yourself, “That’s gonna be me someday, dammit.”
We feel your pain, Zak. So many lassies, so little time. Not even enough clicks in a day to put the “c” in your first name. We understand all the tribulations you must endure, being the heartthrob of every pig-tailed, prepubescent grade school girl just dying to throw a postage stamp on the picture she colored of you.
People might say it’s a gift, Zak. But we understand. We know your hard core handsomeness is a curse. An albatross about your neck. But you must go on. Ye, you must gallantly hunt, oh beauteous, bewitching Zak Bagans.
Do we really need to say more? He looks like your penis- with a wig. He’s every snot nosed, rich kid you wanted to beat up in high school for no other reason than he just… deserved to be pummeled. Usually these types grow up to be cops. But back in them days they didn’t really have YouTube, or big time Hollywood brass types scouting Internet videos for snot nosed rich kids that can kinda, almost sing. I’m not sure I know which world is better. But I do know that I want to punch Justin Bieber. Hard. In the face. Really, really hard.
With that thought in mind, why don’t we relive one of the greatest moments in history, and watch him get shot over and over and over. Better yet, take a minute and watch him lose a battle with a revolving door.