James Beard Wannabe

Oh Liarpants… my daddy laughed out loud at you. I didn’t even have to Google it for him to tell me you were full of shit.

D- Babydoll… that is seriously pathological…. but wait… you never even told me he was a chef? If this guy is the James Beard Rising Star then I should have heard about his cooking…and I happen to know that Gabriel Rucker won this year.

J- Well….. he makes torchon. It’s his big deal. Ewww. He made me dinner once… but it was pretty bad. Too salty… with some sort of sausage, broccoli, crayfish soupy stuff under a steak… with a bone.

D- Oh. My. HA HA HA. You hate meat on the bone.

J- I know, but he had already bought it… and you know me… what was I going to say?

D- I don’t like meat on the bone?

J- Yeah right.

But… and I only know this because I am an absolute brat…

He’s not a very good cook… and I couldn’t finish it because it was so salty and so… well… overcooked. Dude if I want to eat broccoli paste? I’ll have my 11 year old boil some for me.

The steak was awful… after you fought your way around all that nasty fatty disgustingness. Blech, gag… wretch.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach….  but it’s not. It’s through his balls and we all know it. The way to a woman’s heart is a man that knows how to be domestic in order to delight her.

Feed me.

Tell me about it.

Talk to me while you cook and tell me what you’re doing.

It’s the highest form of foreplay you can achieve with me and if it’s done well? I’m sold. I’ll buy the farm. I’ve already picked out china patterns in my head after the second course if it’s really good.

I do not leave food on my plate…. hence the chunk-tastic thighs.

I also only send one thing back when I don’t like it…. and that’s steak….

and how on earth do you send the steak back if it’s your boyfriend cooking it? You don’t. That’s what. You suck it up and eat it…

Even when you don’t like it…. and you pray he doesn’t notice that you hardly touched it…

Even though you know he did.

You make excuses. You’re tired. You’re feet hurt. You want to take his clothes off and really thank him appropriately.

lol… or you’d rather get laid than eat another bite.

Either way- it worked… and I was pushing away my plate in minutes. Wondering how long it’d take him to pass out before I could eat a bowl of Lucky Charms.

Annoyed enough at how bad it was to be a brat about it… dice some onions and garlic and REALLY cook dinner.

Show him how it’s done… Mr. I-wish-I-could-be-talented Steinbauer.

Dude… put down the salt and walk away slowly so that people can eat your food without three glasses of water.

Or vodka…

Which improved the taste exponentially- thank you.

Watching him shake like a crazy person while trying to cut his steak sort of takes my mind off the taste in my mouth. I’m grinning at him, thanking him for the amazing dinner… lying through my teeth.

It’s the thought that counts, right?


When it comes to food? It’s the taste that counts. Sheesh. Buy a clue, Liarpants.

But the James Beard?

Give me a fucking break. Do I look like an idiot? Or just play one convincingly?

The James Beard Rising Star award is the epitome of chef-dom. It’s what they all pray for when they close their eyes at night. They all want it.

None of them get it.

Least of all, Liarpants with his nasty ass too salty overcooked broccoli.

Dude… please… you have to get up very very very early to fool a foodie…

and the closest you’re getting to a James Beard? Is to Google it.


BTW…. it’s his birthday…

Dear Nathan…

Dear Nathan, aka Perfectpants, aka Liarpants, aka Cheaterpants, aka Mr. On The Chopping Block,

You have so many personalities, I figured it was only fair you had a few nicknames to choose from.

And HEY!!! You love attention… and you always wanted to be famous…. 1001 hits on my blog yesterday and climbing…

You’re welcome. 🙂

Though I think maybe I made you more infamous than famous… details schmetails. Enjoy.

I can’t decide if you’re a worm? Or a snake… but I’m just pissed off enough to explore my other options too. I think perhaps you’re a weasel.

Weasels break into the chicken yard in the middle of the night and kill the chickens. They don’t eat them… they’re in it purely for the pleasure of torturing the sweet innocent bird to death. They don’t just kill one. They kill EVERY chicken in the hen house.

You fucked with the wrong bird.

You played me, I get it- you totally and completely wormed your way into my life. Deliberately, saying everything I wanted to hear, and fast. Dancing with me, flowers for me and for my daughter… you have hella game, I’ll give you that.

To a point….

My daughter never liked you.

I- Why is he always walking around saying “High Five, Good Game! It’s lame… and nobody cares about your stupid military stories enough to listen to them CONSTANTLY. Mom, don’t go out with him again. I like the dog though?

She made me the funniest thing after we found out what a liar and a cheat you are.

It’s an eggshell- and it says:

“I hope he dies in a fire and gets reincarnated into a mosquito and you kill him. High 5 good game. Men, who needs men?”

You can’t fool a redhead, and she thought you were a douche from day one.

I- Why is he always going out to his car? Who is he talking to? Something’s not right.

I should have listened to babygirl.

Because you were going to your truck to drink scotch out of your water bottle.

Or call your other girlfriend? I looked at your call history too asshole, you are absolutely the most disgusting human being I’ve ever had the pleasure of throwing under the bus.

All you had to say for yourself yesterday?

N- Excuse me wow! Ok! Well welcome to the small town express!!!

Wow? I’ll give you wow… wow is spending every weekend with me, then falling off the face of the earth to do the same thing with her. In front of people you KNOW I’m going to meet or have met at some point. With the baby even? And Remington? I have never been so offended.

Granted- I’m the idiot that listened to your line of bullshit- and I’m the fool that bought it….

You sweet talked your way right into my heart… and my bed. A friend warned me.

S- That guy is a snake. Snakes are poisonous- do not date him. You’re way too nice for that liar.

Ohhh but I knew better. You were different. I defended you. Begged people to give you a second chance because after all, that was years ago…

You could be trusted because you loved me SO much.You were perfect. Singing to me… dancing with me… playing in the garden & spoiling my daughter with fireworks.

Cooking me the perfect steak. Sigh…

<eyeroll> gag.

You were a satisfying source of unpredictable sex, Sunday & Monday. Plain and simple.

I tolerated your endless boring bullshit military war stories because you have a big dick… and as long as I climbed on top of you before you were too drunk? It was great…

Which is why I high five, good-gamed you, ala Tucker Max. Not knowing you were going to adopt it as your tag line.

Left to your own? You’re no picnic in the sheets. There’s a deadness in your eyes that always haunted me and perhaps it’s because you’re so busy fucking so many different people? I don’t know- it’s fucked up… and if weren’t for my rolling you onto your back and taking control of the situation? It wouldn’t have been that great. I can admit that now.

You’re not supposed to beat a woman to the finish line. Bad form Nathan, really bad form.

But where I really go ape shit in this situation? Is when I talk to Ms. Babymama and she assures me he was never in the military, she’s talked to his mom.

Lying about being a soldier? Wearing dog tags you bought online? Impersonating an Army Ranger?

My heart stops in my chest a little. Some of my best friends are military boys. I have a Marine fetish. Something about the white gloves, shiver… at any rate… I still have your Army tshirt. It’s so horrible a thought I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

Who does that? WTF? Two fresh military tattoos…. a ranger tattoo and a special forces tattoo…???

I’ve heard of being a fan of military memorabilia… but impersonating a soldier is just scary pathologically disturbing.

My daughter said it best…

I- He wore an Army t-shirt on the 4th of July… who has the nerve to do that? Where’s a Veteran when you need one, I’d like to give them his picture and let him explain himself to someone who will kill him for being a liar.

With a new text message from him chiming in a minute ago…

N- What the fuck? Who said that I was fucking her?


J- You have to be joking. You expect me to buy that?

N- Ha ha I think its kinda funny she is like my little sister. She just drove me up to Sandpoint but believe the Bitch. Another one jumps on the crazy wagon.

N- We will talk later.

You use the same lines over and over again- I know because posting your name has brought in a windfall of “OMG me TOO!” emails. Awesome.

Perhaps it’s time someone created a Nathan is a Dirty Lying Cheat page on Facebook?

The bitch? I had emails rolling in all day yesterday from the many women of the I-hate-Nathan gang. There are many of them. They all cried about it to me.

You have that effect on people.

What I find most pathetic? Is the blatant fraud that you are. Creating these feelings and situations with multiple people at the same time. Morphing into whatever you know will disarm us the fastest… playing on our weaknesses.

Yep. It’s official… I figured it out.

You’re a snake.

A slimy dishonest worthless threat to everyone around you.

The best part of hate blogging you?

Is that now when you use your “Google my name” line on your next unsuspecting victim?

They’ll be able to read up on what a liar you are.

Which makes your hate blog a veritable public service announcement.

Proving once and for all that snakes are dangerous…. but fuck with a chicken and you’re liable to get pecked to death…

One word at a time.