Raconteur Anthony Bourdain has been traveling almost non-stop since 2000. He’s adventured a lot. He’s eaten a lot. He’s drunk a loooooot. That doesn’t mean there still aren’t things that get under the professional vagabond’s skin. Recently Bourdain took aim at airplane food and room service (and with good reason). Today, he broaden his list of no-go and terrifying things about life, food, and the world:
The number one thing that terrifies Tony…Clowns.
I’m sure I’m not alone here. Were clowns ever funny? No. Of course not. They were always sinister figures, disguising their homicidal intentions under thick make-up, all the while their crawl spaces and chest freezers were brimming with Cub Scout parts .
He also seems to have a fear of the Swiss. This seems very neurotic. The Swiss and Switzerland are amazing. Come on, man!
I think I must have experienced some awful childhood trauma in view of a mural of snow capped peaks and Lake Geneva. I live with a persistent dread of alpine vistas, chalet architecture, Tyrolean hats, even cheese with holes in it. You will notice I have never been there. That’s because Switzerland frightens me.
Maybe not as surprisingly, Bourdain also loathes singing in public, and especially karaoke. Unless it’s soju-soaked and in a private booth. This is easy to understand. Karaoke has the ability to make ass hats of us all.
[Karaoke and] singing in public in general . Korean karaoke is an exception. Like anything shameful, I prefer to do it in private. And after enough soju, anything is possible. Karaoke should only be performed with people who have already seen your genitals.
If you live in New York, you’ve seen a rat. If you haven’t, consider yourself among the lucky few. Bourdain has seen his fair share of rats working in the bowels of New York’s restaurants.
Fuck snakes. I eat them. Spiders? No problem! But rats. Rats! Maybe it’s my years in the restaurant business, but the appearance of a rat was always the beginning of the end. An augur of doom. A poisoned rat once crawled out of a wall and flopped limply onto my foot to die. They had to scrape me off the ceiling.
Polka music, ukeleles, neckbeards with banjos, golf clothes—in fact golfers in general, The Real Housewives of Anywhere ( their glassy gazes, surgical addictions and single minded hunger for attention are a clear and present danger to anyone in their trajectories), pressure cookers, and Nashville Hot Chicken ( the extra hot version).