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Terry Abernathy Is Out At The BHAA

News release:

Upon recieving the so-called Christmas card below from Terry Abernathy and his wife Ondine (with a note attached saying ‘Hey Ted, fresh blood on it’s way for the BHAA!’)

Terry Abernathy with his wife Ondine. Does the Earth God have his way with Terry over a boulder in a quiet wooded glen?

I called Dave Woncott and Porter Jones and told them I wanted Abernathy out of the Beverly Hills Automobile Association. And I wanted him out now! I showed them the card and attached note and they both laughed. I then said to them, okay, I want you guys out with him, to which they replied ‘not gonna happen.’ I then got a lecture….a lecture, mind you…from Dave about diversity and accepting the other guy and it’s 2011 and what’s up my ass and on and on.

I said to Dave I resented being badgered about not referring to Porter as his half-brother. Dave said to me that Porter was his half-brother and he wasn’t ashamed of it. I said to Dave, that’s fine but only a plywood shelter in a no-mans hell filled with pig squeals would be suitable as the BHAA headquarters if word got out. He then laughed again, derisively. I waved Abernathy’s Christmas card in his face. He’d have none of it. Porter, the half-brother stood there grinning. Then Dave jumps up with this one. “You don’t make a move without me! I have a coalition of members that want YOU out Bell..they’re tired of your BMW’s, all 20 of them!” Well, that’s when I became all ice. Know what I mean? I simply told him to sit down. I told his HALF-BROTHER Porter to sit his ass down too. All I said were 3 or 4 little words:

“I’m Ted Bell.”

Dave got real quiet and Porter dipped his head…real low, almost like (and please forgive me for saying this but it was extreme) almost like he was trying to give himself a….a blow job. They then got up and slowly trudged out of my office. I called for Oscar to valet their cars to a spot across the street. I couldn’t stand the sight of them and I couldn’t stand seeing them get into their cars at MY valet stand. I then left this message on Dave’s phone: “You ever come in here again trying to tell me how to run my business and I’ll kick your butt so far up between your shoulders that… know…” Words failed me. I started again.”That your head will look like it already does…a butt..only it will be worse because it’ll be a real butt and not just….” I hung up, disguisted that Dave’s feeble challenge had thrown me off. But at least I knew I hadn’t taken a picture of myself and my wife with me looking like the Earth God himself bends me over a rock in a wooded glen nightly and goes to town. Wow.

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My Occupy LA Arrest, by me, Ted Bell

My name is Ted Bell, and I’m a husband, a father, the owner/operator of “Ted’s Of Beverly Hills” Steakhouse and president of the Beverly Hills Automobile Association of Santa Monica.

 I was arrested at about 1 or 12:30 a.m. on Wednesday morning with 178 or 251 other people at Occupy LA. So there I am, minding my own business, sitting in City Hall Park with a pillow, a blanket, a tin of milk, some bisquits, a chew toy and a copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Being Peace” inside of which were photos of hermaphrodites when all of a sudden, out of the blue, much to my surprise 1,400 heavily-armed LAPD officers in paramilitary SWAT, Nazi-type gear in a variety of styles and colors streamed in. I was reluctantly in a group of about 50 peaceful protestors who sat Indian-style, (that’s where you cross your legs) arms interlocked, loins touching, limbs entwined all around a tent pole, hubba hubba  (the symbolic image of the Occupy movement. I guess they don’t actually sleep in them on acounnt of the cooties). The LAPD officers encircled us, weapons drawn, mouths slobbered up and drooling, fangs extended while we chanted “We Are Peaceful”,“We Are Nonviolent”, “Join Us” and “Who’s Got Smokes?” all real gay-like.

Occupy LA © protester
As we sat there, encircled, I trembled with anticipation. Was it possible? Yes! A separate team of LAPD officers (That’s right. A whole seperate team. I know because I kept one of my eyes on the drooling ones) used knives…KNIVES…. to slice open every personal tent in the park as well as my stuffed Minnie Mouse. They forcibly removed anyone sleeping inside. And even the awake ones! Then they yanked out and destroyed any personal property inside those tents, scattering the contents across the park. (That’s what I was told anyway) My heart was racing and a smile crept across my lips as they did the same with the communal property of the Occupy LA movement. For example, I watched with uncontrolled delight as the LAPD destroyed this ugly-ass pop-up canopy tent that, until that moment, had been the official Occupy LA First Aid and Wellness tent. brought to you by Whole Foods, in which volunteer health professionals and neighborhood retired people gave free medical care and brochures to absolutely anyone who requested it except cops. Was it plausible the police didn’t see the pop-up tent in my slacks? As it so happens, I had personally contributed that very, exact canopy tent to Occupy LA, at a cost of several hundred of my family’s dollars after my wife badgered me to buy the piece of shit. As I watched now with an unrestrained carnal joy the LAPD sliced that canopy tent to shreds, broke the telescoping poles into pieces and scattered this crap to hell and back. Cheers erupted from the crowd and I almot fainted from excitement. Note that these were the objects described in subsequent mainstream press reports as “30 tons of garbage” that was abandoned by Occupy LA. Well not quite. It was personal property we were looking to lose anyway and LAPD obliged us by destroying it in front of our eyes. For kicks and so we could get pictures we asked them to leave it for maintenance workers to dispose of (along with our urine, feces, candy wrappers and a pair of my sandals that had a busted strap) After we ran out of film, we directed the police to send us to prison or jail or whatever they call it.

 Okay. So now LAPD finally….finally…. began arresting those of us interlocked around the symbolic tent that symbolized, you know, tents and we were all ordered by the LAPD to unlink from each other (in order to facilitate the arrests). Can you imagine me willingly unlocking my arms when I knew what I’d be missing? I was almsot beside myself, mad with expectation. Each seated, nonviolent protester © beside me who refused to cooperate by unlinking his arms had the following done to him (Now wait til you hear this. It’s like a spa menu) an LAPD officer would forcibly extend the protestor’s legs, grab his left foot, twist it all the way around and then stomp his boot on the insole, pinning the protestor’s left foot to the pavement, twisted backwards. It was so far superior to the anything that was done in the Wellness tent I asked the officer if he’d care to visit Ted’s Of Beverly Hills once a week to work on the whole staff. Then the LAPD officer would grab the protestor’s right foot and twist it all the way the other direction until the non-violent protestor, in the throes of incredibly erotic agony, would shriek with pain and delight and unlink from his neighbor. The look of pleasure on the faces of the, again, non-violent protesters © gave me a hard-on. But, because I was afraid a tabloid might be lurking nearby and might snap a picture of me, mouth agape, shreaking with pleasure, I unlinked my arms voluntarily and informed the LAPD officers that I would go peacefully and cooperatively, but wetting myself just a touch in the process. 

I cursed myself. Rad Weeson, one of the non-violent, non aggressive, non-confrontational © protesters asked me why I pussied out. It was kind of exciting to watch, and apparently designed to terrorize the rest of us like in what they did on 9/11 and to that ship. I stood as instructed, trembling, and then I had my arms wrenched behind my back, and an officer hyperextended my wrists into my inner arms. Oh the pleasure! It was super violent, it hurt really really bad, and she was doing it on purpose. I turned slightly and almost kissed her lips hard. Oh God! When I involuntarily recoiled from the pain, the LAPD officer threw me face-first to the pavement. Man, that just felt right! She had my hands behind my back, so I landed right on my face. Yeah! Feels good! My loins were on fire with the humilation. The officer dropped with her knee on my back and ground my face into the pavement. I laughed. It really, really hurt and my face started bleeding and she asked me the time honored question “Does your face hurt? Because it’s killing me!” We both laughed hysterically, she with her boot on the back of my head, me bleeding from the nose. We had a hostess at the restaurant once who worked Sundays. I’ll never forget. She was almost this good. I begged the cop for mercy in a half-hearted way and I lied that I was honestly not resisting and would not resist. But she ground my face more and more and more into the pavement. When I got up, smiling and with two teeth missing, needless to say my wife wasn’t very happy with me. The officer blushed.

My hands were then zipcuffed very tightly behind my back, where they turned blue. Or they might have been blue when I left the house that night. I’m not sure. But I do know I am now suffering nerve damage in my right thumb and palm. I’ve been fielding the congratulatory phone calls all morning and of course I ostentatiously showed off the injuries at the restaurant. I gave people the half day off so they’d have time to come see my wrecked face as well, As it’s mandatory, the line’s quite long. I gotta tell you. for the price, it’s quite a deal.

Anyway, I was put on a paddywagon with other nonviolent protestors ©  and taken to a parking garage in Parker Center. They forced us to kneel on the pavement. Remember, pavement is made from concrete so it’s hard. So we were kneeling on the hard pavement of that parking garage for seven straight hours with our hands still tightly zipcuffed behind our backs. Or it might have been 15 minutes. Anyway, it was great. Some began to pass out. One or two protesters too. One man rolled to the ground and vomited for a long, long time before falling unconscious. He was drunk so the LAPD officers watched and did nothing but he could have been worse. Like diabetic. That would have been better because then he might have died, LAPD would have gotten all the heat and Ted Bell would have been there! Witness to history, baby! Witness to history! I begged that one female officer to at least kick me in the testicles. I mean, we were now in a parking garage. No one would see! But she did nothing. She had a great opportunity to really pour it on and she blew it.

At 9 a.m. we were finally taken from the pavement into the station to be processed. The charge was…I forget what the charge was but it was basically sitting in the park after the police said not to. And the city ordinance says not to. Anyway, it’s a misdemeanor. Real chicken shit. Almost always, for a misdemeanor, the police just give you a ticket and let you go. It costs you a couple hundred dollars. Apparently, that’s what happened with most every other misdemeanor arrest in LA that day. Homleess people, bums, drunks, junkies, real scum. W were really worried, for the first time that day, that they’d do the same to us. A slap on the wrist and we’re on the bricks looking for all the world like a bunch of bitches.

We got the word. They set bail at $5,000. Another cheer went up almost as loud as the one we gave LAPD when they mercifully destroyed the ugly-ass Wellness tent. Then they booked us into jail or prison. Almost none of the protesters could afford to bail themselves out. There were high-fives around for that too. But unfortunately, I’m rich so I could afford it, except the LAPD spent all day refusing to actually *accept* the bail they set. I mean I was sorry I was leaving the protest and the comradery we’d built up and so forth but I really did want out of jail because I started thinking about some of these people I’d been in the park with. It was 50/50 one of them would move on my ass if I stayed the night there. If you were an accused but not convicted murderer or a rapist in LAPD custody that day, I imagine you could bail yourself right out and be back on the street, no problem. I mean I don’t know but it sounds good for the point I’m about to make. And here now is My Point: If you were a nonviolent Occupy LA protestor © with bail money in hand, like me, you were still held long into the following morning along with, you know, the other ones that couldn’t afford bail. And those one’s of course might agree to move on my ass sometime after miodnight. I made an attempt to pretend to care about one or two but quickly shed the charade when I finally heard my bond got posted. But remember. In jail you have NO ACCESS to an attorney! Other than with a telephone!

The good news is I spent most of my day and night crammed into an eight-man jail cell, along with sixteen other Occupy LA protesters. My sleeping spot was on the floor next to the toilet. I mean how lucky was that. I saw that no one was there so I just called it.

Finally, at 2:30 the next morning, after twenty-five hours in custody, I was released on bail. There were at least 200 Occupy LA protestors who couldn’t afford the bail. That’s the breaks I guess. I mean I’ve got enough money to spread around. I could have sprung a few. But how do I know whether that trash would show for court or not, you know. And besides.They were the ones lucky enough to stay in jail and continue the protest by being available for photo-ops. The LAPD chose to keep those peaceful, non-violent, passive but boring as shit protesters © in prison for two full day. That was one and a half more days than I got to be there. I knew I’d miss the solidarity and friendship we’d built. I went home, took at 40 minute hot, steaming shower to get some of the stink off, got out the snack crackers and squeeze cheese and checked messages.

As a reminder, Antonio Villaraigosa has referred to all of this as “the LAPD’s finest hour.” He got that right.

So that’s what happened to the 292 or 163 women and men and men and women arrested last Wednesday. It was fun. But now let’s talk about a man who was not arrested last Wednesday. He is former Stanton Meats N’ Chops CEO Chode Stanton. Under Chode Stanton, Stanton Meats N’ Chops has delivered a consistently quality product to Ted’s Of Beverly Hills. Chode was at Occupy LA albeit in another part of the park and not one of those lousy cops put him on the ground, zip-tied his wrists or even bend his hands backwards.

Stanjton Meats N’ Chops spent 30 years intentionally buying up the finest cuts of beef, pork, chicken, horse and yes, occasionally, kangaroo and to what end? To be shunted aside by Antonio Villaraigosa and his LAPD goons. Chode asked me later to recount my arrest on tape so he’d have at least that to listen to and, okay, fantasize. Every cheap, punk cow and pig in America Chode Stanton gave a meaningful life to. You could hear him say: “Here. here’s a barbecue. Here. here’s a plate or platter. Hop on. Make something out of your life!  Make a delicious meal for someone. I’ve made sure you’ve been extra rigorously inspected by independent meat inspectors!” What did he get from LAPD? Ignored. That’s what he got.

What happened to Chode should never have happened. While I and hundreds of other, peaceful, non-violent, passive, non-confrontational © protesters got arrested and exquisitely tortured, Chode stood there with his you-know-what flapping in the breeze. The LAPD did it again and again Wednesday. They didn’t arrest everyone. That’s right. Some people they let go. Others they paid no attention to. I have it on good authority that most of the arrests the LAPD made that day were of peaceful, non-violent, passive, non-confrontational © Occupy LA © protesters, the so-called “biggest pains in the asses we have had to deal with today” according to one cop. Can you imagine that coming from the mouth of one of our civil servant peace officers? I’ve never, ever been called a pain-the-ass before!

In any event, believe it or not, I’m really not angry that I got released. I chose to get released because I’m a bit of a chicken shit. And I’m not even angry that the mayor and the LAPD decided to not give non-violent protestors like me a little extra shiv in jail. They could have. They could have shoved my face onto a drainage screen and then stood on the back of my head to get the impression pressed on real good.

I’m just really angry that every single Chode Stanton didn’t have a chance to be in jail like me. For years, I’ll be able to bore people to the brink of suicide with long, one sided speeches at parties about my “jail cred.” But Chode? He’ll just be a loser that missed out on that experience because LAPD decided to play it fair and enforce the law. F. It!

Thank you for letting me share that anger with you today. Also thanks to Stuart Greem, who held down the fort at Ted’s while I wrote this, J. Elmer Ruta for the coffee runs, Bill Premminger for his tireless hanging over my should and breathing on me Patrick Meighan for the inspiration to tell my story. Thanks. thanks to all. Goodbye, Thanks so much. I’m Ted Bell. Thanks. Thank you.

Ted Bell

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Guest Blogger Pastor William Rennick: This Man Wheeler and his Race-Baiting Mice

I’d first like to thank Mr. Ted Bell for temporarily yielding this space to me. Very kind of him. What I have to say is necessary…..and urgent. It’s urgent because I believe an individual under the guise of some kind of new-age, holistic persona is actively promoting a racist agenda using, of all things……mice. Small mice that he has under lock and key in a pet shop. These mice I am told are ostensibly for sale to further the good works of the the new-age, yoga, mumbo-jumbo movement and what have you. Now…I got no quarrel with the way a man chooses to make a living, no quarrel at all. But I’ve got one BIG quarrel with that man when he trains animals to spout viscious hate and I certainly have a BIG quarrel with that man when he trains MICE to spout that racist HATE.

Now hold on and don’t judge me til you’ve got the facts. I’m all about facts. You can doodly-do and and BS and so forth all the live long day but when that day ends and the cows are in the barn and the chickens are parked on their eggs…FACTS are all that matter.  Last night….on the Phil Hendrie Show…a man I know well and on whose program I have often been….Mr. Hendrie had as a guest a man named Wheeler, Dean Wheeler, some kind of yoga guru and what not. He was calling from Novato, California which is northern California. Northern California has been the birth place to some wonderfully enlightened movements. It was in nothern California that the torch light opposing war shone bright. It was in northern California that the torch light opposing racism and sexism shone bright. And so why is it that on the night northern California betrays the residence of some jive, race-baiting yoga boy I am listening? I believe the answer is simple and the answer has always been the same. I was directed by GOD…………………………….to be listening last night.

I was listening last night when I heard Mr. Wheeler claim two mice, chirping away in the background of his phone convesation with Mr. Hendrie, were “talking” or chirping about him. I was listening when this man claimed the mice were “saying” insulting things about him, up to and including the insult that Mr. Wheeler dropped out of their “rear-ends”..(and here’s the good part)…and needed to be carted off to their “dung-field.” Mr. Wheeler claimed to Mr. Hendrie that “Mouse” was a form of communication used by mice but that it was not a language, per se. At this point I called the program to get on the air and dispute what Wheeler was saying, believing that he was mentally diseased! That is to say, I had PITY……………..for this fool. PITY………………..for this balled up clown.You can well imagine my heart going out to a poor, no-count nut that says he understands “mouse.”

Well I got on the air.  And that’s when, as we say, all bets were off. As I began to question Wheeler I heard the suddenly agitated squealing of the mice. They were clearly chirping and squeeking or whatever on God’s good green earth you call it at a more pronounced pitch. My presence, it would seem, was agitating them. And then Wheeler dropped it. Those so-called mice had heard me on the line and were telling each other or the other mice or whoever was there that a n***** was on the line! Wheeler made this claim to me and at that point I had no reason to doubt him. I HAD thought he was unhinged. Now I know he runs some kind of animal act where he’s able to communicate with the creatures and slowly indoctrinate them into a racist, white supremist point of view.

Do I sound crazy? I got news for you. I will travel to northern California and speak directly with Mr. Wheeler about my observations. And unless he is able to give me a clearer understanding of why his mice said “a tired old n*****’s on the line” when they heard me on the Phil Hendrie Show last night I will go back out to my car,  get the meat-tenderizing mallet I plan on bringing with me and go to work on his mice.

Pastor Rennick Notes: For a former fat lady Wendy Williams has worked miracles. Except for the nose-job. Also, those large breasts only serve to create resentment in the hearts of the smiling ladies in her audience. Deep inside, they hate them and her.

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My US Open Tickets….WORTHLESS!!

Flushing Meadows, New York.—I am known by a couple of things. My restaurant. My Beemer. My friends, contacts and business partners. My presidency of the Beverly Hills Automobile Association….AND…people know Ted has arrived when they see my familiar red ball cap, tennis shorts and sweater tied around my neck. I don’t know. Call it my liesure uniform. But that’s one of the things people recognize as being “Ted.” In other words, I Like Tennis.

So where do you think I am today? Any guesses? Huh? You, you, you, you? No? I’m in Flushing Meadows, New York, site of the US Open Tennis Championships. My tickets, on the net, Arthur Ashe Stadium. Are they valuable? They were…..before the rain came down, the players started to pee themselves and the US Open officials caved to the crybaby. As of this writing, the matches today have been suspended. So my tickets are worthless. I walked up to Chet Feed, one of the Open officials and a dear friend and I said “You destroyed my day with your caving into spoiled athletes. Now I am directing you…as a long time supporter of tennis….I am directing you to order those punk-ass, punked, bastard sons-of-wealthy fathers bastards back out onto the court. I am directing you!” You know what he did? He didn’t say a word, gave me the finger, belched and walked away while pointing and laughing at my ball cap and sweater tied around my neck. He will lose his job as soon as I get Ward Tunney and Mary Dean-Slitton on the phone…and you know who they are if you are fans of tennis. But more to the point, Chet Feed will never eat in my restaurant again for as long as he walks this earth..never again.Good luck Chet. Hope it was worth it.

So you ask why am I complaining about getting rained out of watching the Open today when there are many days left in the tournament. It’s a good question. Here’s the answer.  Today is the one day I have those tickets that I’m not sitting next to several children from the Sky Point Foundation.

               I hope the US Open rots in hell

They are amazing kids and I will be giving lots of money to them, you can bet on that, to make their dreams come true! I will! I, however, wasn’t told I’d have them next to me for the duration of the tournament. Behind me and on either side. So I look like I am the father to 7 bald children, two of whom wear sunglasses and stare at the ground. Okay, there. I said it. The only reason why I make an issue out of it is because they usually show my seats on national television when they want crowd reaction and also want to show what celebrities are in attendance and they’ll show me, constantly, surrounded by Creation of the Humanoids. I’m sorry. It’s been a long week. I’ll donate to the Foundation but why today, the only day I don’t have Close Encounters of the Third Kind in my lap is a rain out is anyone’s guess! But I am certain it was done on purpose and as an over-sight.

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Why I Like Gold In These Economic Times

I’m Ted Bell…. When I say those words they are like gold. They are a kind of currency for me in Beverly Hills, Los Angeles, the LA metro, Southern California, California, the USA, North America and eventually then, after all of that, the film industry. But not eveyone is Ted Bell. Not everyone need only say their name and the ears of movers, shakers and candlestick makers prick up. (Memo to Arlene: Lose the “prick up” phrase. Sounds like I’m talking about popping one in the bone yard just because I’m famous) Some need a more traditional means of barter. I like gold. I’m didn’t want to bore you with the cumbersome economic trivia that goes into making this decision but then Al Waddell, (pronounced wa-DELL) my business associate of some thirty years and our bookkeeper at Ted’s of Beverly Hills told me it would be a good idea….Can I back up? He suggested. I’d rather not give the impression anyone tells me to do anything. So he suggested. He suggested. K?

                                   I’m Ted Bell

The reason why I like gold as an investment (and again while Al doesn’t tell me to do anything he also suggested I invest in gold but the final call is mine) is because it is solid, hard currency and is valuable. Paper, obviously burns, becomes wrinkled, gets lost, can be torn in half and becomes unusable. Anyone who’s tried to pump a lousy dollar bill into a soft drink machine at the height of the summer’s heat knows what I mean. Gold on the other hand is solid and isn’t going anywhere. Try losing a gold bar. I’d like to meet the soft drink machine that’s going to spit an American Gold Eagle back at me. See what I mean? Now I know many people want to know why, in fancy, economic, stock market currency blah-blah-blah terms I’m investing in gold. To that I say it’s really none of their business because I want to keep my business edge. But I will tell you some of the things I’ve done with gold that no one else has done with gold to show you I know what time it is out here on the street. Okay? So listen up.

                                   Piece of shit

I have had a gold statue of me and my family made and it is right out in front of our house in Beverly Hills. Why? Because the Saudis that parked here for a number of years with those statues and that house they painted some unnatural, Arabian color which sat out on Sunset insulted me as a Western Man who has the common decency to wear shoes and drive a car. (Yes, people that ride camels are FUNNY. See? FUN-nee!) So I’ve had a gold statue made. I also have gold patio furniture. I commissioned a gold toaster and gold kitchenware. You follow? I have purchsed a gold Buddha statue from a dealer in the Far East and it’s going out near the kids water-slide so that just before they hit the water they look up and see a gold, laughing Buddha looking them up and down and they’re reminded of who is hosting their fun and frivolity. Me. (Memo to Al: What if they think Buddha is the reason they’re having fun? Goddammit) And finally I’m having a car made for myself first (and then another for Marcy if I like mine) out of solid gold. G-O-L-D. A gold BMW convertible.  All gold. I am told the vehicle will weigh around 12,000 pounds and could sink any ship transporting it from Germany. Ask me if I care. No one else in this town will have one except me. So I don’t care if Godzilla rises up near Catalina and drowns every Christian soul within walking distance (Godzilla walking distance) I’ll have my gold BMW! I’m so distracted now by the thought of the gold car that I’m bored with this blog. Fuck this. Pardon my language. Come on into Ted’s and I’ll make it up to you with a drink or a platter of something.

                       On order…solid gold

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I Can’t Stand It Any Longer

I’ve tried promoting my business via this Twitter and I don’t think I’ll be able to take it much longer. I spent a good amount of money coming up with the right slogan for my business. “We want to put our meat in your mouth” was the winner out of some 15 or 16 that made the cut. Among them: “Steak so thick and juicy you’d marry it” and “Our award winning chops, steaks and ribs are talking to you right now.” I went with “We want to put our meat in your mouth” because it was the direct message, the clear and concise message. It was only after I’d gotten home and was fixing myself a drinkl that I got the call from Terry Hoban who said “Blow jobs. We forgot the whole blow job angle.” I recall my glass and ice hitting the tiled pool bar floor I was standing in but I recovered very quickly. “Don’t touch it,” I said. Don’t go near it. We take the high road.” Well, some 15 years later the slogan survives but not without idiots still looking to put a big, brown stain on it.

And so comes Twitter and the predictable clods peppering me with “tweets” about meat, my mouth, their mouths, their meat, my meat…you get the picture. Ted’s Of Beverly Hills becomes the slobber poster child and the image is perpetuated by Twitter.

Who do I blame? Well I don’t blame myself. That’s simply a matter of policy. I could blame Phil Hendrie, who hosts our segment on his show. He has about as juvenile an audience as I’ve ever seen. The only one worse was when I used to do the odd shot on Tom Joyner. I could blame Marcy, my wife, who looked at me from over the edges of her sunglasses when I came home with the campaign then began undressing right there in the back yard. She simply could have said “Oh, you want me to blank your blank? Why didn’t you say so” and I would have explained. But when your wife’s got what my wife’s got and she starts taking her clothes off, even if you’re standing in the foyer of an orphanage, God help me, you don’t stop her.

Today Ted’s continues to slide its delicious meat into any willing mouth. But the price I’ve had to pay…people walking up to me on the street and saying “Say Ted, you wanna put your meat in my mouth?”…is one that brings to mind the actor Ned Beatty and the shit storm he’s weathered for 40 years all because he…………………………………………….squealed like a pig.

I’m Ted Bell

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I’m Ted Bell

…….and I invite you to Ted’s of Beverly Hills, since 1975…with a one year pause to get our books together and do some remodeling…Ted’s has been serving up the best steaks in..well, the world! From our Porterhouse for two to our Filet’s, New York’s, Kansas City’s and Baseballs’ we’ve got it all. When we say we want to put our meat in your mouth what we mean is we want you to eat our steak. It doesn’t mean what some filthy minded morning show disc jockeys have said it means…..and you know what I’m talking about. When I say I want to slide my meat into your mouth and watch your eyes pop out of your head and hear you mumble with delight I mean we are proud of our slow-cooked Prime Rib and all the entrees. And you talk about side dishes. Roasted asparagus, cabbage and garlic mashed potatoes, basil carrots, the dry, garlic beans that have become a favorite and so very many more that have nothing to do with sticking meat in your mouth, so please clean your mind up.

Our Prime Rib Room is our lounge. It’s called the Prime Rib Room because that’s where we used to slow cook our prime rib until we expanded after my father was hospitalized for acute alcoholism and I was able to begin to put my stamp on the place. I kept the name “Prime Rib Room” because I couldn’t get anyone to call it The Bell Bar. They wanted to remember it the way it was when my father was sober. So, instead I invented…that’s right…INVENTED…the Ted..a Captain Morgan’s and Coke. I also INVENTED wrapping tin foil around a baked potato and I was the one that said “Don’t you think these steak knives would cut better if the edges were serrated?” And by the way on any given night you might see a movie or television star having a quiet cocktail in our Prime Rib Room although, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, you won’t be allowed near them unless you and I reach an understanding.

Join us won’t you. Family friendly (to a point) and the food is out of this world (to a point) Ted’s of Beverly Hills!! (Located in Beverly Hills)