Worst Cooks in America Has Some Competition

“Women belong in the kitchen!” Are you sure about that?

Reading Time: 2 minutes

To preface, cooking is something that I’d love to know how to do. I’m not sure how well I can live an adult life while eating nothing but expired Yoplait and dinosaur chicken nuggets. At some point, I predict I’ll get so fed up with my lack of culinary skills that I’ll materialize the superhuman ability to manifest a perfectly cooked seafood platter out of thin air. But actually cooking? That’s true sorcery. The prospect of being self-sufficient is so appealing to me, but I can’t cook in the same way chorus kids can’t speak a sentence without ending in a vibrato.

Over the past few years of my life, I’ve tried my hand at simple cooking tasks, but boy oh boy, did they not live up to my low expectations. Don’t believe me? Here’s what the dishes I’ve cooked in the past have to say about me.

From the toast I made several years ago:

“You’re not gonna believe this, but she burnt herself worse than she burnt me. This would’ve been funny if I were joking, but while I lay steaming out of the toaster, Krista was shaking her hand, like she thought it would scorch off her arm. Needless to say, that didn’t happen, but nevertheless, I wasn’t even a hint of a different shade, while Krista was every shade of red at once, just wincing uncontrollably. It was at that moment she learned how to use tongs. That’s a lie. She tried to take it out of the toaster with a vacuum. I don’t know where she comes up with this stuff, but it certainly doesn’t evoke Guy Fieri in any sense.”

From the hot dogs I barely cooked a couple years ago:

“Oh, Krista’s cooking? Dear golly, please don’t let her near any pots. You know how the directions say boil for five minutes? She’s taken two years of chemistry at this point––this is absurd. How could she put a vague meat-like substance in a pot of what was effectively lukewarm water for five minutes and call that cooked? This is just plain dangerous. It’s a miracle her mom asked her how long she had cooked it, preventing her from eating the death blob. Her mom then finished boiling us alive… That was painful to witness. I’m sorry––no further comments.”

From the eggs I butchered a couple months ago:

“I promise everything I’m about to tell you is completely 100 percent factual. She cracked three of us into a bowl. Fair so far. She does some preliminary whisking with her trusty fork. Fair, again. Feeling like a culinary master, she adds way too much milk for dramatic effect, along with some cottage cheese. Lord knows why she added the cottage cheese––she doesn’t even like cottage cheese. Anyway, she transferred this mystifying concoction into a microwave-safe glass tupperware. Do you know why it was important that the glassware was microwave-safe? Because she MICROWAVED IT! She microwaved her scrambled eggs! And to make matters worse, she lost track of how long she microwaved them for and took them out after two minutes because they looked congealed enough! I’m sorry for yelling at you. You didn’t deserve this. Needless to say the next day proved problematic in terms of manners pertaining to her poor, poor digestive tract. It’s better now, but oh jeez, was that one helluva ride. Never allowing that to happen again.”