Hey, Food Network Fascists! Guess what-? You just GOT SERVED! (Or, um, what flatware goes best with Chief Wahoo?)

The id and I - The Food Network can kiss my grits!

So, recently, I find I can no longer talk about sports with people. And why-? Because everyone is just so damn infatuated with this Food Network of theirs, that's why!

"So," I begin innocently enough, "how about that Tribe-? Red hot, aren't they-? And, hey, how about that LeBron James, huh-? And those Cleveland Browns aren't too shabby either - you know what I'm saying?"

And then the ugliness begins: "Eh, yeah, I guess," a colleague of mine will shrug. "I haven't really been paying attention to them all that much. I spend most of my free time watching The Food Network..."

And that's when my face suddenly turns as white as my ass, just like Oprah must have felt after finding out that her beloved fallen idol, James Frey, was a sham - and my soul quietly shatters into a million little pieces.

"How's that again-?" I stammer, clutching my heart like Fred Sanford, as my male co-worker suddenly looks at me like I'm a modern-day Fred Flintstone who just punched out at Mr. Slate's rock quarry for the day, with my stone-tablet timecard clutched tightly in my neanderthal-like hand.

"The Food Network," he explains further. "I can't get enough of it! You really should check it out, Chris. It can really teach you alot about cooking-"

And that's when I pause, all dazed and confused. What do I need to know about cooking-? I mean, there is this amazing new invention, after all - I think it's called: THE MICROWAVE.

And then my male co-worker, realizing my pathetic plight, starts to talk down to me like the single guy simpleton that I am - with Chef Boyardee for brains. "You really need to learn how to cook, Chris-"

He then proceeds to babble on and on about "The Greatness" that is The Food Network - going into great detail about his favorite shows like "Cooking with Stuff," "Your Utensils and You" and, finally, "Take a Wok on The Wild Side."

So, being beat into submission like a sap, I reluctantly go home and turn on this "Food Network" of his to watch the poster-child for anti-famine feminism, Rachael Ray. If The Food Network Nerds were Trekkies, I'm guessing Rachael Ray would be their "Mr. Spock."

I still don't understand why I'm supposed to burn my Brady Quinn Notre Dame jersey and follow this woman to the bitter ends of the earth-? Why do I need to know how to cook, I wonder, when I can simply tap "Big Al" from Happy Days on the shoulder at the local supermarket and he'll nod sympathetically towards me, holding up his Encore Family-Size portions of salisbury steaks, and whisper reassuringly in my ear: "I'll be over for dinner around six."

So I sit and listen to this woman go on and on about the profuse importance of parsley. But how am I supposed to let this sultry chef into my life - when she won't even let anyone into her kitchen-??? I mean, does she live in there or something-? I don't even see any other doors that lead into other rooms in her television house. I think even Bert and Ernie adjourned to other rooms of their home on occassion!

But on and on she goes, mixing, sifting and stirring. And, yet, I find myself unable to open those Food Network freezer doors with her - afraid the only "missing ingredients" I might find in there ...are severed human heads.

Back to my male co-worker whose voice appears out of nowhere like Obi-Wan Kenobi: "You really do need to learn how to cook, Chris, if you want to impress a woman."

I'm sorry, but the last SERIOUS relationship I had with a woman ended badly - and that woman's name was ...Ms. Pac-Man. Ms. Pac-Man was the "Gloria Steinem of the video game world" and she asserted her independence by flaunting her pink bow of feminism over the ghosts, "Inky, Blinky, Pinky ...and Clyde" - leaving her ex-husband, Pac-Man, to fend for himself - and die alone, broken and hungry, in the neon-blue gutter.

Ms. Pac-Man didn't NEED a man to cook for her - oh, no! She was a "modern woman" who could "pay for her own meals" by gobbling up those delicious bonus points disguised as fruits, pretzels and other assorted snacks. You go, girl!

Sure, Ms. Pac-Man probably opened the door for Hillary Clinton, but where did that leave her fella, Pac-Man-? I'll tell you where it left him: Bitter and alone, probably getting drunk every night and listening to old "Level 42" songs - that's where!

That's why I always eat out, now, and let my friends throw the dinner parties. After all, the last "dinner party" I threw was catered by Buffalo Wild Wings - and, oddly enough, it didn't seem to go over very well with my snooty guests. Go figure!

So, you'll excuse me if I don't jump on this whole Food Network bandwagon - I'll just call Domino's and have The Noid over for dinner instead.

Bon Appetit, Blinky!