Just caught the last Top Chef episode on the DVR last night, and oh, the pain. Dale, though prone to bouts of frightening immaturity (see: punching locker, grabbing crotch threateningly), went far too soon, especially considering the caliber of some of the remaining contestants on the show:

Hate hate hate! How can anyone look at that face and still have an appetite?

All the stupid hats of Ricky from Project Runway’s Season 4, fused with the blockhead conniving of Wendy Pepper from PR Season 1.

The sooner these two are banished from my television screen, never to return, the better. Alas, Dale’s departure this week means that one of these chucklefucks is going to make it to the final four. I would say this is even worse than Tre’s infamous early exit last season, because at least the remaining contestants weren’t completely talentless* and thoroughly infuriating in every way possible. And the worst part: my beloved Bourdain had to deal the blow! I do, however, understand and respect his decision. If only Dale hadn’t made that awful scallop dish, one aberration in an otherwise strong season. If he had lost that coin toss to be executive chef. Or if the judge had just given him the Quickfire award instead of Antonia. If only!

It’s okay, Dale. Let the tears flow. We know you’re better than Lisa and Spike and so do you.

Speaking of kitchen nightmares, maybe I should lay off watching endless re-runs of Kitchen Nightmares for awhile. Perhaps the repeated shots of Gordon Ramsay disrobing are starting to sear their way into my psyche, like the permanent W on the chef’s chin.

I had a dream the other night that Chef Ramsay and I were hanging out at a mansion, listening to folksy music play. He seemed like a duck out of water, far removed from hot kitchens and incompetent line cooks to yell at. So we chatted for a bit about food, and other subjects. Made some catty comments about the band and the line-dancing Branson-esque audience members. Did I mention that we were sitting on a bed?

…don’t worry! This dream was totally G rated and Puritanically chaste. He ended up departing early, leaving a cookbook behind. In the cookbook were scraps of paper, and on those scraps of paper - a long, rambling love letter! In the letter he said that he enjoyed the time he spent with me. Unfortunately he was already committed to a wife and kids in this life, but that in a future life we would surely see each other again, because we were both “weird souls.”

What does this mean? Is my soul mate really an aging, foul-mouthed generator of creative expletives, a crusher of budding culinary dreams? What will I tell E? And if this is truly the case, why couldn’t it have been Bourdain, for chrissakes?

My actual, waking life, dark tempered and foul-mouthed culinary crush. Nothing against Ramsay, but blonde guys with W’s carved into their chins don’t usually do it for me!

* Looking back at that season, I had totally shut out of my memory the fact that Cokehead Brian and Sweaty Bear Howie lasted longer than Tre. So Tre’s elimination still ranks as the most egregious moment in Top Chef History, but this one is definitely a close second.