Forbidden Bakery

People are never asking me, “Sir! What makes a great hot take?” 

In response to these people, I say many words, because I suffer from pressure of speech, which means I often dominate conversation in order to avoid awkward silence. Luckily for the universe, most of the word vomit I manage to spew out takes the form of unwarranted hot takes.

As an aspiring hot take artist, I’ve used up some of my limited time on God’s tan earth to generate some controversial opinions, which is to say I’ve dreamed up various scenarios, hypotheticals, and other conceptual faffery which are specifically designed to rankle, upset, or outright offend. People love it! People love me. They love me for what I do. 

Some hot takes I take pride in sharing with others. I deliver these piping fresh takes without an ounce of self-awareness, like I’m sharing a dead person’s filthy sex secret at their own funeral. For instance, when I remarked to a few “strangers” (another word for “friends who don’t know it yet”) that American military veterans should pay more for things (movie tickets, roadside assistance) instead of qualifying for discounts all the damn time, and I said it loudly while we were on public transit, I knew what I was doing.

Some hot takes I must squirrel away so as not to upset the sensibilities of the general public. I’m not a total monster! I can’t list them here; these takes are simply too hot. But hint at them I will. One is about Irish people. One is about China’s fabled social credit system. One is about the simians who lurk around the tourist hotspots on Gibraltar. 

Not to be forgotten is the element of performativity that should undergird the sharing of a hot take. When I spent part of July 4th weekend telling a gaggle of my first cousins that small children of anti-vaxxers deserve to die, I meant to both sour what was already a less-than-stellar holiday gathering and see how far I could push the boundaries of the thought exercise. “They deserve to experience such immense loss!” I probably said while downing my third vodka rocks. No one responded, which was rude, honestly.

The hot take, when delivered verbally, is a form of performance art (dare I say a found object?); when written or typed out, it’s the plaything of the sociopolitical elite—the lifeblood of the ever-sneering and nuance-starved cultural Twitterati. I refuse to partake in to the hot-take cottage industry—chiefly because I haven’t earned my stripes as a senior congressional aide, Chicago-based film critic, or handsome white person who “broke through” on Vine circa 2014. Instead, I cleverly skewer the ramblings of the neoliberal blue-checks who have emerged as principled thought leaders. My M.O. is as simple as it is subversive: I’m just a straight up offensive bitch. People love it. I am loved! 

But at what cost? No chef de cuisine of the contemporary hot take needs love. Instead, in my effort to alienate as many people as possible (which itself has been frustratingly hindered by the ongoing global health crisis), I must leverage the worst parts of myself and channel all of these inconveniences into becoming a Hot Take Guy. As a cis white man with somewhat niche interests and an unused buy-nine-get-one-free psychotherapy punch card, so much of the work is already done for me, and for this I must check my privilege. 

Now, my hot takes may seem like the rhetorical gak of the modern edgelord, but know this: I do not identify with libertarian-leaning expressions of comedic insult. Nor do I stubbornly inhabit a lonely island of my own making, mocking the huff-puffings of the culture war. Call me a navel-gazing centrist and I’ll call you something right back: a friend. Only a true friend would find the time to talk to me! 

Will you be my friend? 

​Enough! I desire no contact! No touch. No sweet, sweet forehead kiss. I wish only to bake the hottest of takes in my forbidden bakery. The recipe is simple. Combine one part loneliness, two parts bitterness, three parts Catholic neuroses. Stir until thick and impenetrable. Toss that in a casserole dish and let that baby burn at 900 degrees Fahrenheit. Careful. Don’t burn yourself on your hot takes while taking them out of the oven. And watch out for that tricky oven, while you’re at it. Your head might find itself wandering inside. Don’t lose it.