Forbidden Love and Frosted Tips
An eccentric chef. A washed-up pop star. Both men were hungry for love. It was only a matter of time before their frosted tips ignited the flame.
It was a Friday evening on the Las Vegas Strip.
Within the kitchen of a poorly reviewed bar and grill eatery, the self-appointed Mayor of Flavortown was cooking up a nightmare. His name was Guy Fieri, a frosted-tipped chef who specialized in heart-stopping dishes the FDA wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
While grilling burgers, Fieri gyrated to the beat of a nearby radio blasting pop songs from the 1990s. It seemed like nothing could extinguish his mojo.
Sadly, things would quickly take a turn for the worse.
“Don’t touch that dial,” the radio DJ implored. “Sugar Ray’s breezy hit ‘Every Morning’ is up next. For the best variety of the 90s, keep it tuned to Sunny 106.5 Las Vegas.”
Upon hearing Mark McGrath’s vocals, Fieri’s mood abruptly shifted. Gone was his gleeful confidence. In its place, a look of dismay developed.
“Couldn’t understand how to work it out,” McGrath sang with remorse. “Once again, as predicted, left my broken heart open, and you ripped it out.”
This particular lyric resonated deeply with Fieri. As smoke from several neglected burgers began to fill the kitchen, the frosted-tipped chef started to bawl uncontrollably. Rather than attend to the burning meat, Fieri unbuckled his camo-printed cargo shorts and cranked his salami with furious anger.
Smoke alarms and sprinkler systems began to go off. Despite the chaos, Fieri remained in a trance. He continued to masturbate angrily while simultaneously ugly-crying to the Sugar Ray song.
After a few moments, Fieri’s wife burst into the kitchen. She couldn’t believe the horror that she was witnessing.
“Guy!? What the fuck is going on?!” She cried.
“Shut the door, baby!” Fieri pleaded. “Don’t say a word!”
An exhausted Mark McGrath slowly trudged along the Santa Monica shoreline.
The frosted-tipped singer had just wrapped an underwhelming concert on Venice Beach. His band played alongside Smash Mouth for an audience of burnt-out forty-something soccer moms and former high school quarterbacks addicted to opioids.
It went without saying that Sugar Ray was no longer relevant within the pop culture zeitgeist. Not that McGrath seemed to care. These days, there was something more pressing on his mind. Perhaps a missed opportunity from his past he couldn’t shake.
Upon returning to his beachside Airbnb, McGrath came face-to-face with his band manager, Chip Quigley.
“How was the show?” Quigley asked.
“Okay, I guess,” McGrath shrugged indifferently. “Some dude stabbed his wife’s lover in the eye with a glow stick.”
“Any casualties?”
“Three, last I checked.”
“Well, that’s five less than last time,” Quigley reasoned. “I have something to show you. I think you’re going to dig it.”
Quigley retrieved his cell phone and handed it to McGrath. A BuzzFeed article titled “The Ranking of Frosted Tips” was displayed on the screen.
“This is your ticket to ironic relevance,” Quigley claimed. “Look at the retweets. The kids are eating this shit up.”
McGrath rolled his eyes at the idea of obtaining ironic relevance. While scrolling through the article to see where he placed on the list, an unexpected detail made his heart drop.
“Guy Fieri,” Quigley smiled. “You two are tied for the number one spot.”
A look of despair developed upon McGrath’s face.
“BuzzFeed wants to do a scripted video with you two,” Quigley revealed. “It would be a meta-comedy piece where you argue over who started the frosted tip trend.”
“I can’t do it,” McGrath blurted.
“What? Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“That’s a pretty vague excuse, McGrath. This could do wonders for your career!”
McGrath didn’t respond to Quigley’s argument.
“Okay, look, just think about it,” Quigley groaned. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to McGrath.
“Here’s a number you can call to get in touch with BuzzFeed. Fieri’s contact info is there as well.”
McGrath reluctantly took the piece of paper. He gazed at Fieri’s digits longingly before releasing a heavy sigh.
Twenty-four hours had passed since Fieri’s breakdown.
The frosted-tipped chef lay sprawled on a flame-patterned sofa. Seated across from him was his therapist. The therapist retrieved a pen and notebook from their suit jacket and gestured toward Fieri.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the therapist spoke calmly.
The Mayor of Flavortown exhaled.
“It was the summer of 99’. I was catering a music venue in Orange County. Sugar Ray was one of the bands playing. I was on the dance floor, grooving with their shit pretty hard. That’s when I laid eyes on him. Mark Mc-fucking-Grath. The tips of his hair were frosted to perfection. He was the epitome of gangsta!”
“It sounds like you admired the way McGrath carried himself.”
“Game respects game! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d find someone as off the hook as me.”
“So, where did it all go wrong?”
Fieri’s enthusiasm quickly gave way to a tidal wave of depression.
“When his eyes connected with mine and our souls intertwined,” Fieri sadly divulged. “He approached the edge of the stage towards where I was standing. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was offering me his hand. But at the last second, his eyes diverted from mine. It was as if he was embarrassed. He snatched some barely-legal brunette bimbo standing next to me and made his way backstage. I never saw him again.”
Upon hearing this revelation, the therapist stopped jotting down notes.
“Forgive me if this sounds forward, but are you mad at McGrath for not taking a sexual interest in you?”
“Wouldn’t you be? We were locked in, and he caved!”
“What about your wife? You’ve been together since ‘95.”
“I was willing to throw all that out the window for McGrath. The man’s swagger was translucent!”
“I see,” the therapist said with astonishment. “Well, I think you need to face McGrath and tell him exactly how you feel.”
“Are you nuts?! I can’t do that!”
“Do you want what happened last night to be a recurring theme?”
“Of course not! But you don’t understand; there’s so much unprocessed anger. I don’t even know how to get a hold of him, and I doubt he wants to talk to me.”
Before the therapist could reply, Fieri’s cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.
“Hey, Guy,” a familiar voice echoed. “It’s McGrath.”
Fieri was seated in his red ‘67 Camaro. He had just made his way to McGrath’s beachside Airbnb rental in Santa Monica.
Over the phone, the Sugar Ray frontman brought the BuzzFeed article to Fieri’s attention. Not that the Mayor of Flavortown gave a shit. He was more interested in the way McGrath handled himself during their conversation. Though the call was brief, the sexual tension was undeniable.
Despite this, Fieri was reluctant to enter McGrath’s home. The thought of experiencing rejection for a second time filled his cholesterol-infected heart with anguish.
Before exiting his vehicle, Fieri reached into his glove box and retrieved a snub-nosed revolver.
“If I can’t have him, no one can,” he whispered.
McGrath and Fieri sat on opposite ends of a kitchen table. Both men appeared tense.
“That’s a bitchin’ shirt,” McGrath complimented while eyeing Fieri’s flame-patterned button-down.
“Thanks,” Fieri blushed. “Your hair looks sublime.”
“And yet I’m the lead singer of Sugar Ray,” McGrath joked.
Fieri cackled with delight at the arguably lame quip. Both men awkwardly cleared their throats.
“So, this BuzzFeed thing,” McGrath began. “We’re tied for first. What are your thoughts?”
“No one can get on our level,” Fieri smiled. “It’s us against the world.”
“If only,” McGrath sighed. “Are you happy with your career?”
“I am. Some people are just born to cook and talk. How about you? Are you satisfied?”
“I’ve never been satisfied,” McGrath admitted. “Even when I was at the pinnacle of my calling, I was lost. Between you and me, I tried to kill myself on the set of Scooby-Doo. Sadly, you can’t die from eating dog treats.”
“It’s a common misconception,” Fieri comforted.
“I suppose. Nonetheless, what I want, I can’t have.”
“What do you want?”
“The same thing that everyone’s after, I suppose. To be loved by someone worthy of my affection.”
“Have you ever met such a person?”
McGrath smiled faintly.
“Long ago. But I blew that opportunity.”
After some hesitation, Fieri reached for McGrath’s hand. Both men’s hearts raced with intensity. The singer appeared interested, but at the last minute, he turned away.
“We can’t do this,” McGrath lamented.
“Why not?” Fieri tearfully asked.
“For starters, we’re both married.”
“Yeah, to women we don’t love!”
“What about our careers? Our fans will never accept us.”
“Fuck 'em! We’ll find new ones. Better ones.”
“I wish it were that simple. I think you should go.”
Fieri shot up from his seat and drew his snub-nosed revolver on McGrath.
“Now you listen here,” Fieri quivered. “Ever since our first encounter, my life has been in shambles. I hear your songs on the radio, and I fall the fuck apart! I used to wake up in the morning and think about food. Now I think about you and what could’ve been! I can’t keep living in the past. Either I can have you, or nobody can.”
“Let me get this straight,” McGrath trembled. “You’re prepared to kill me if I don’t give in to my temptations and love you unconditionally for the rest of my life?”
Fieri held his breath and nodded.
“That’s the sexiest shit I’ve ever heard,” McGrath whispered seductively.
Fieri’s eyes lit up with tears of joy. He tossed his gun aside and approached McGrath.
“Rumor has it you cook the best meat in town,” McGrath teased. “And I’ve been hungry since the summer of ‘99.”
Fieri unzipped his pants. McGrath’s eyes widened.
“How about a thick, uncut piece of bacon served raw by yours truly?” the frosted-tipped chef asked flirtatiously.
“Bon appétit,” the frosted-tipped singer replied eagerly. “Put your arms around me, baby.”
What happened next was bomb-dot-com levels of tasty, and rightfully so. The frosted-tipped lovers were finally flying together as one. Nothing could stop them now.
