Billions of people tuned into ‘Cookalong Live’ with yours truly the other night. The whole affair was a brilliant success. Just brilliant. This fucking bitch didn’t really like it. But then again, look at her last name. I don’t trust anyone with that many ‘Os’ in their last name.

Anyway, I cooked scallops, steak and chocolate mousse live on the telly. The public tuned in in droves and cooked along with me in real time. Ratings were the highest for any television show in history. Plus, so many people participated in the actual cooking that supermarkets made more money on that single day than all of the previous days of the year combined.

Maybe Gordon should try this fucking recipe for success in the States. Lord knows you can use some help with the economy. Bernanke blogs on here, but never says much, does he? Yes, yes?

Here’s the scoop of the year, and it’s only fucking January. Looks like some muckraker of a journalist found out that a few of the restaurants featured on Kitchen Nightmares, have closed since being featured on the show.

Big fucking whoop. Closing is the least damaging thing that could happen to these restaurants. In fact, it’s the safest thing to happen to the public. Some of these asshole “chefs” on the show were on the way to being responsible for countless deaths by foodborne illness. I tried to help, but there’s only so much you can do with rancid meat and refrigerators and stoves that don’t work. Plus, most of the people running these places were fucking dumb. One chef was so stupid, he made Kelly Ripa sound like a theoretical physicist.

Photo via Tatler.co.uk

Boo-fucking-hoo. Looks like that rag of a restaurant guide, Tatler’s panned some of my restaurants. One thing they bitched about was “duff” service. I looked up the word duff, and you know what it said? It said no one fucking uses the word duff.

Tatler’s referred to my hardworking wait staff as “inelegant.” And in an attempt to highlight this point, the writer made a highly offensive comment: “We encountered a snappy Slav racing through the specials…”

Um, excuse me but I’m pretty sure that including the word “Slav” wasn’t necessary.

Another part made me chuckle. The part where they said my restaurant “pleases” but doesn’t “wow.”

What do you need? A blowjob with your lobster ravioli? No really, Tatler’s, I need to know what will “wow” you. What if one of my waiters delivered your entrees to the table riding a unicycle and balancing the plates on the tip of a skewer? Would that “wow” you?

Via FOX

At least virtually. I’m close to nailing down the final touches on a new Hell’s Kitchen video game, based on my highly fucking successful show. Bleeding hell it’s about time. Think Smurfs on ColecoVision combined with Grand Theft Auto combined with a real-life shooting spree.

I demanded I be involved in the development process, so I sat down with the programmers and developers and told them flat out: I want to be able to fucking kill the contestants in this game. I want to poke them repeatedly with a carving fork or hold their head in something hot, say the deep-fat fryer.

I’m used to giving people food that tastes great. But this time I gave the paparazzi a little taste of what Gordo looks like shirtless.

Sorry, there’s no photo in the story. You can send your complaints to that twit of an editor. But take the reporter’s word for it, I looked fucking great on that beach in Thailand.

Let’s see Batali on the beach. He’d get harpooned by a whaler.

Sandra Lee on the beach?

Associated Press

Would’ve sparked rumors Baywatch is back.

Here’s a show idea. Find a Food Network host who has kids. Preferably two sons with a combined IQ of -65. Then give them a fucking show!

Apparently that’s how Paula Deen’s sons got on the fucking air.

I’m so fucking mad, I can’t even type anymore.

Old Gordo is making the move to Los Angeles. And I need a fucking place to live.

Now, ordinarily I’d be looking to buy, not rent. But this fucking subprime mess that your country got itself into has changed my plans a wee bit.

So I’m looking to rent a modest 12-bedroom, 8.5-bath, 9,000 sq. ft. pied-a-terre. It has to have a full football pitch in the backyard with functioning lights. And it also has to be near the Beckhams so we can have tea together every day.

Post your comments on here if you know of anything that’s available.

Or any highly toxic chemical compound. Something deadly, yes? Is that such a hard fucking request?

My fucking word this show is painful to watch.

Exactly what are Cat Cora’s credentials for being named an Iron Chef? Did she cut the crusts off a sandwich once?

And that Bobby Flay is something awful to watch. He and Batali are as graceful in the kitchen as a giraffe is on ice skates.

But what really gets me is the bloody host, Alton Brown. He’s got the face for radio and a voice fit for a mime act.

Photo by DonnaGrayson via Flickr.

I wasn’t going to go. I hate most of the other assholes that blog on this site. But then I got an email saying that the News Groper editors were going to give me the gift I requested from my family since my family was too cheap to fucking buy it for me). That’s probably retaliation for the fact that my kids only get one gift each even though I’m worth millions.

Turns out that fucker John Mayer sent the email as a joke. There was no gift for old Gordo. Not even a thank you for bringing the best-tasting dishes to this lame-ass pot luck party. That’s right, a pot luck holiday party! The editors couldn’t even spring for a catered party. Fuck, order a bunch of shit off the McDonald’s Dollar Menu. I fixed that restaurant and the fucking place is golden again.