I want to state for the record that I categorically deny any connection between myself and Mr. Jason DeRusha, the food critic and part-time bon vivant.
There is no truth to the rumor that he and I opened a restaurant in Seattle during the late 90s that featured a fried green tomato souffle.
An affidavit is on file at the Hennepin County Courthouse affirming that we do not share any of the same DNA. A copy of this affidavit is held by the Mayo Clinic.
He is not now nor ever has been and never will be my consigliere. We have never met. He and I are not classmates, contemporaries, or even inhabit the same plane of existence. We do not speak the same language. I don't even listen to him on the radio.
After a careful and impartial investigation conducted by the Pinkerton Agency, it now appears that various parties, who shall remain nameless if not blameless, began to link our names together on social media during the fall of 2019. Their motivation in making these baseless claims remains obscure. But I believe it has something to do with the Hurricane Dorian coverup. Or the rising price of chicken feet.
Be that as it may, I contend that Mr. DeRusha and I have no basis for a meeting of any kind. Either now or in the foreseeable future. If our paths happen to cross by accident I will be wearing blinders.
I hope this lays to rest, once and for all, any further speculation about our relationship. He and I are like two nights passing on a ship.
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