An Italian state TV chef is getting seared over his sizzling on-air admission during a cooking show that he often eats cats and finds them “tastier than other animals.”
This can’t possibly come as a shock to anyone with eyes. Beppe Bigazzi looks like a cross between the Grinch and actor Tim Curry, whom I greatly admire but who I’ve long suspected feeds on domesticated animals. Instead of masquerading as a flaming 1970s transvestite or ruining Christmas for the Whos in Whoville by hoarding all the presents, this nutter is swiping his neighbors’ beloved pets, sharpening his Ginsu, firing up the stove and settling in for a quiet night of caticide. And, what the hell, probably ruining Jesus’ birthday, too. And Hanukkah. Maybe Kwanzaa. While dressed in drag. Seriously, look at the man. That’s just the kind of person he is.
Bigazzi, co-host on “La Prova del Cuoco (The Cook’s Challenge),” contends cat stew is a “delicacy” in his native Tuscany and offered tips on how to prepare “tender, white cat meat” during a segment of the show normally reserved for nutrition advice, enraging animal activists worldwide. Suspended by the network until further notice, Bigazzi now claims it’s all just a “misunderstanding.”
Sure it is, Beppe. I would have believed you had I not already Photoshopped you into an equation with a British treasure and maligned cartoon villain and mathematically calculated that you are, in fact, a cat-eater. The *real* misunderstanding here is that, frankly Beppe, I don’t understand why you don’t want to eat my cats. They just turned 7 years old and are in their prime. Are my bambinas not good enough for you, Signore Bigazzi??? Is it because they’re Americans? Or because they’re girls? Or because their mom is a non-practicing Jew? Or because they’re gray- and cream-colored, which technically makes them biracial? Oh. Holy. Shit. When I started this post, I thought you were just a feline-eating psychopath who probably cross-dresses and steals Christ’s thunder. But now I realize you’re an America-hating, anti-Semitic, bigoted, misogynistic evil-doer. It all makes perfect sense. If you’re not with me and my cats, you’re against us. We’re the deciders. You’re a terrorist, Beppe Bigazzi. The End.
Except it’s not the end, because Beppe’s speedy downward spiral into jihadism got me thinking about the way I talk to my cats, and how someone might get the wrong idea about me and my intentions. So, to clarify, just because you might overhear me tell Isabel and Teva “get in my belly,” or “let’s get this peristalsis party started,” or “I love you so much I could swallow you whole like the python that tried to eat an alligator in the Everglades and then exploded,” I am speaking metaphorically. However, admittedly, there’s no doubt in my mind that my cats taste delicious, but that’s something I take on faith. Except that one time when I yawned as Isabel simultaneously stretched and her paw ended up clenched between my teeth. There was about 90 seconds of uncomfortable silence as we sized each other up. Then we agreed never to speak of it again.